It's sad to think that soon will come a day,
maybe tomorrow, and the trees will be
still in the alley, blooming, feeling free,
while we will die and slowly rot away.
The sun, O, God, will always warm the ground
when we are gone, because the world remains;
there will be seasons in a row and rains
with hair that cools the landscape all around...
This grass will sprout and grow again, for sure,
the moon will lean – and awe-struck it will seem –
over the gently flowing little stream –
we won't stay here as lonely as before.
And I feel weird today when I see how
so many put their passion into hate,
when life is but a tiny drop of fate
between the moment that is striking now
and the next one – and I can't figure why
we fail to see the heaven high above,
we don't pick flowers, smile, or truly love,
when we are fleeting and we surely die.
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