Oh, death!
Thy power I defy;
The immortal spirit we are
Ne'er fear to die.
Ye only could efface
This frame that decay,
But not novelty preserved
Allow alert till thumb up joy.
Where there is your tear:
Life is as passive
As rough regrettable race,
What they have an illusive.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
In effect, dear brother, we die for 7 or 8 hours a day. Then, we are resurrected in heaven, or. A well worked write.++10