This morning I smelled roses in the window;
Roses, those invite a near death, and
I saw a suffocation passing through the next door.
As a usual day, as a usual betrayal,
As a very common act of funeral,
As forgetfulness following the coffin.
The roses are just another glimpse for me.
When people die, they say,
Death creates a walkway without the walker,
A dream without a dreamer,
Hungriness without a stomach,
Bitterness without a love,
And a nothingness with something.
I don't care, I just don't;
Because, I worry about those who are survived,
But not about those who had an easy death.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Born - live - die - just life