When you work, work and work all through the weary week,
While waiting for the weekend all the while,
And when it does come slow and meek,
It leaves us soon, with a smile...
Why this injustice, why this state of mind?
'Tis not right, 'Tis not right I say,
when we work, time drags i find...
'Twere my wish, that it were some other way..
'Til I find, on one fine sunny day,
That my hands are now so weak...
While my dreams are scattered afar and astray...
What was once my future is suddenly here, so bleak!
'Tis my sincere wish, as it once was,
that instead of faith in destiny's hands;
I'd painted a little more colour to the canvas
And wrought my own future, like so many on Time's sands....
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem