The fountain
reaches upwards into space
and, finding nothing
to sustain it there,
falls back into its proper place.
And in this endless
rise and fall,
we see the start and finish
of us all.
Time flies
through summer and through wintry skies;
measures elephants and butterflies,
marks where this is born and that one dies.
See the world dissolve and fade before your dying eyes!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
If there is such a thing as a perfect poem this is almost that.