Clear to us, ambiguous to them
Rough for us, smooth for them
It is done by clowns, you do it and make me cry
How could it be so deep, but now to them it's plain
Age is nothing but a number, but they remember and it makes them sad
Strong to them, flexible and durable to us
Cold to them, the wind blows hot here
Life is short and long to all of us, but we see it wide and narrow as we measure on our own separately.
Now I wonder if it is a fight among us
or life just gives this course at will
so we can let it peace as it feeds on our confusion
Celebrating victory after episodes of war
only to come back again to say the trophy was bronze
and to them it was gold.
Now does this life deserve a prize at the cost of us and gain to God for all the glory?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem