We weep and grind in our day,
in the floor of the creeks we lay,
lurking around this place of dismay.
At the top of the mountains we dwelt.
Staring at the commoners who got drenched
we smiled at our fortunes and walloped in wealth
and thought the worst that could come was death.
We fought the ferocious rain,
the kings of the jungle we tamed.
Our gusto could stop a moving train,
who knew we would go down the drain?
The titans swept by a stray wind.
The luxury of caution we failed to wield.
How anti-climatic is this deed.
With the tweezers we have been trimmed like the weed.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem