This naked world rolls on
Like the cob when we threshed the corn.
Our days of prime, we gadded-about,
All was void but we eked-out.
Success might not be glaring,
Because life is shamming;
Either joy or sorrow is a prone
We delved but none was known.
Let opulence be impure,
Alas, for all, heaven is unsure;
But in the fall of the curtain,
Only death is certain.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
This is even better, yet. I don't especially care for 'only death is certain' - because I like ambiguity in poetry! That's just a little 'too certain'!