Most waste youth's day in hasty way for fruits age finds are folly,
And seldom take the time to slake, to savour Time until too late.
Rose blooms in May, has passed away when boughs are decked with holly.
It therefore seems, despite blinds schemes that Man dreams up to counter fate,
Each must essay the game to play in full when young and jolly.
Just measures to determine through experience often frustrate,
Or seem delay that cannot pay – thus lead to melancholy.
Sincerely though, if Truth you’d know, stand back awhile to calculate
Each interplay of facts which may assist a valid volley
Ensuring that successful bat which makes Life’s innings scintillate.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem