If life is a fine string of a musical instrument
Then definitely you are the chosen musician
The sound you make could be either a tune great
Or a dull noise with the push or pull by your finger
The choice is yours and the ball is in your court
If love is an inexplicable enigmatic floating cloud
Then the space in which it plays is your chest
The color you make could be either black or white
At present, the pigments are in your chosen fort
The choice is yours and the brush is in your hand.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem