Clammy slates lying lifeless
Under the dread-black skies,
Shielding the night from the fire
Of all those youthful eyes;
A wall, a gate, a bastion set against,
A ring-fence to keep out the cold,
As if any such timid defences
Could stop us growing old;
A kind of marking-place, a signal, a point,
The end of the race reached at last,
Knowing as you look on under heavy lids
That the baton has been passed;
For all of the things that are in you
And have seen the winter erode and chill,
Have been launched anew into spring
With all the years to follow still.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Another nice one. I feel ashamed I haven't read any of your poems prior. I will do better. I promise.