If to touch the ceiling is to touch the bottom
are our lives just as topsy turvey.
If to be blind is to truely see and to be deaf
is to truely feel. Are we all dead to emotion.
If to lick the wound is to taste the pain
does the indifferent taste a little less salty.
For to sit in a room littered with unwanted
thoughts, sleep has sided with red time.
There is nowhere to go but the endless
loop of telephone line, with nothing but silence
at the other end.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem