In the hand of the lines
Blowing the wind of meaning
Growing the rain of writing
And showering the windy rain
On the ground of spelling
Without a certain course
Without a destined point
Some words do appear
Some words disappear
And some words are just
To become shiny tears
In the eyes of the poet
When he just decides
To end this poem
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem