Is it not strange that a pretty bloom
Blossoming on the forest floor?
Shall wither too and be no more,
And add to the woods a sombre gloom.
That tender grass and the stately trees
Green creepers that crawl up the wood,
Perhaps have not yet understood,
They too shall end with this disease.
Sprightly squirrels and those chirping birds
Butterflies frisking on their ways,
Have a counted number of days,
As do insects and the grazing herds.
No different are creatures that swim
And ones that live below the sea,
No crust nor darkened cave could be,
Shelter from death's diabolic whim.
It is so strange that mortals who know
Their time would taper before long,
And someone would sing their swan-song,
Inwardly cringe at this deathly blow.
Into the dust the living shall lie
That life might once again spring forth,
Be it the south or be the north,
Such be the rulings of heavens high.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem