I in all my decadence,
It decides.
And near death,
On your black steed,
I would ride.
The poet in my youth,
I never was.
I cannot die, fair spring,
In the winter of my fall.
And to miss the Rose's
Grow,
That I will never have.
Oh, death can never wait,
For word's.
I have not said,
So as we pass,
There's nothing I can say,
To you, but smile.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
We never know when it is our time to go - - - but my father did. On a Saturday, he walked around the little town where he lived and told everyone goodbye. He told the postmistress he would never see her again. She said 'Oh, yes, you will! ' He got sick the next day and died on Monday. He never saw her again.