It is night, everything already sleeps.
And you go on the mountain towards stars,
that you catch the fantasy in your fist.
He is thinking of paper in voices with inspiration,
you are taking notes to syllables and words with rhythm,
you are catching originality already in verses
and the stanza for a stanza song build.
And new song is gift.
You have him, you don't know yet,
maybe only round this,
when you become aware of her late.
Only wait for time,
only he is the right arbitrator.
And you stay still ahead after,
or you go and you are again as before.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem