Old writings script like weeds cut a shaped show,
hefting wind's course in a flowery shot ‘neath ship;
it whittled down a snug picture in a fine array,
oldman's smile glow like fling of a sunlight ray.
T'is old scrapbook won every heart’s sorrow and joy
in a reader's mind, a keenly stride, a swinged bouy:
where memory’s blurred like thinly clouds match
even more amusing is its skin-wound rared patch.
Oh finely writings showed a twinly delight nitch,
with one little lad happened to reach out a hitch;
One arm stretch out a skyward palm’s colored ink,
drops of drizzled air’ve finally send it to a sink.
“Oh, why? , said the lad, my granny’s scrapbook
was made into a paper fly, a kite, and a queeny cook...”
he mustered all the pages, match a writing in the air,
“Oh please no! that’s my granny’s scrapbook, please sir! ”
Was his last cry out from his disdainful love and heart,
Tears’re seemed like a river flow over his eyes and brow;
Only one sigh is paid by the man in its all keenly musing:
A last laugh’s heard from afar like dropped dews sewing!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem