Standing on a quiet, barren land,
thousands deceased, gloomy atmosphere, yet a sunflower bloomed.
Veiled in grey and white surrounding, tanned.
Meagre and affluent, all vanity statures doomed.
Here my imagination works for resting in sand.
The apparent ceased life may have boomed.
Grey and white dispersing to colours, turning to grassland.
Or distressed and suppressed, narrowed graves, their bodies decomposed.
Thy destiny, dependant on deeds, is in your own hand.
Life can be boon or bane, that I've disclosed.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Hmmm....that fickle hand of fate! ! ! I believe that to a large degree we do control our destinies but to a small degree we don't. And that's where that crazy fate game takes over. Love the poem! .