Like a single cloud,
floating in the sky
alone.
Through the sky of life,
drift I.
It makes no difference who,
or what we are.
All of us are waiting, waiting,
waiting to die.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
It does seem we are just born to die. But what we do with our lives in the meantime is what matters. We may appear to be alone, but our slightest actions affect someone, somewhere, you can be sure of that. A deeply touching poem.