Some say that Death is old,
With hollow cheeks, and grey,
And that his touch so cold
Can wither in a day.
But I say Death is young,
He's lithe and full of grace
He turns Him round and laughs
To see Time in my face
In frailties I increase
So strong and tall grows He
The watcher in the grass
Of my mortality.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Some just like that with snake eye's