Shall I erase pigments thy hand scribbled
Onto the smooth pale strips of papyrus reed,
Whose margins carnivorous rats nibbled
But retain the message which man can feed?
Shall I scratch the tales infused in my head
With thy wind's-like gossiping merry tone
As if your voice would not at once ever fade?
But age is the worst enemy I've known.
Oh I guess thy silence means to inform
That all you left belongs to those who live,
And that to me serves not as just a norm
For many consume their treasure ere Death Eve.
How kind thou chose to leave with nothing; thus
All of your wisdom has been left for us.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem