Life is time hurrying to an end,
And Sun, towards the horizon, to set,
Waiting no moment, man's ways, to mend
As its chariot bears him to his rest;
The day tells this as it passes by
And night, as it hastily leaves the sky;
Life is like the fume of a fire
That fades, soon as it goes the higher.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem