Placed on the end of
writing, unactivated every love
smells the extraordinary roses.
Looking at the moon,
I was searching my genre, chipping
away at the rock to chisel a goddess.
Lighthouses dim. Everything
is in dark. Water has the right to
evaporate. Where the words would float?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Everything is in dark....I admit but