When men die like men
The understanding of gods
Has been a stranger to them
They thought of life like
The grass of the field
Which blossoms and in a moment fades
Holding onto oxygen like it were dependable
Cherishing the glory of dust
Origin from dust, destination to dust
How more can man fall
The cemetery is simply a quite shame
Filled with wealth of stars shinning from beneath
Void of the vast skies and a valid consciousness, dead are they all
They lived like grass barely tasting
The consciousness of gods
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem