I'm looking at my own picture
and as if I was going mad.
Who are you? What are you doing here?
Why this body is yours, my lad?
How and why are you getting so?
O, by what mysterious ways.
Is it not time for you to go?
Or for work there are some more days?
There is alien cock in the garden,
while there are many native fields,
And the road at the sky has fallen
To remember all you have lived.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I do not like to look at old pictures of myself. Yes, that man was me and led to the me I am now, but he is a ghost I don't wish to be haunted by. Wonderful poem, Liza. You are talented.