Each day
is just another day.
We relive the past -
in long lists,
in lines we write,
in artifacts we handle
with our eyes,
in old pages turned again.
We live each day -
just another day.
Then we relive
ourselves living the day.
That's just the way it is.
Tomorrow will be
just another day.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem