They always have something ungrateful to say.
Those losing a battle with youth.
Doing things done they use to do.
With a familiar point of view.
They always have something ungrateful to say.
Without a dime spent on common sense.
And not a moment given to appreciate a thing.
Spoiled from birth.
No sacrificing done they do,
To value a self worth.
Or to cherish life day in and night fall they spite.
And yet they participate in making their own forgettable.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem