i know for sure what is the end of that line,
it is a point concealed
it rolls,
and stops at the edge
seemingly it is asking why it must stop at some time
and be
known as something else
what it is not
i have become an accessory
the point is for that moment hidden inside my palm
pretending as a mole
a mystery they all confess
during that
confusing hour
it could have been a dove of peace
a leaf on its beak
i know now how is it not to know
because i have known and felt how is it to be nothing
from that beginning
i could have told you when we first met
all that is necessary and all that is less and yet so full
but we were so foolish then
to believe that time
has the virtue of eternity
that love is a light refracted in the sea
deluding us to
believe about depth and
clarity.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem