Hi, beautiful, you don't have suitors yet?
Make haste, and of yourself, some copies make
That when you're dead, each grandchild that you'll get,
Will not remembering of you forsake,
But you, bent to become a beauty, slim
Subsists, at lengths, on your own body fat,
Starved, eating none, and meager meals you skim
As discipline, but too severe at that;
And you, on your last show of youthfulness,
From whose young womb new life could have ensued,
Have been a monument to uselessness,
To shun the married state, its bliss, elude:
....It's such a waste to die, a single life,
....So hurry, find yourself a loving wife.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem