The glorious days of youth don't last.
We play. We laugh and when it's passed
we wonder why it slipped away?
And when was that, on which day?
Was it the day you realized
that laughter and playing though idolized
cannot be harnessed, cannot be kept?
Or was it the day you finally wept
over the fact that fairytales die?
Whenever it was you remember the cry
that escaped with a sob.
A theif came in and he did rob
the play, the laugh and youthful mirth.
You awoke to the fact that this old earth
is not a playground anymore.
It's just a place with work in store.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem