Men build castles in the air;
Death builds tombs below us,
We've scarce begun to live, it seems,
When death is then bestowed us.
It is a race we often lose;
Death panting by our heels,
We thinking we can pick and choose;
Imagining free will.
We get to pick our place of rest,
And what on stone gets riven;
Don't forget that ticking clock
Before your life's too driven.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Very good thoughts in this one. I like your Style. Hope you read mine: Where the Polar Winds Blow. Adeline