Could emotional concern, fulfilment, even
the most avid love,
possibly thwart all
those troubles, render them
at worse insignificant,
and at the best fictitious?
Or would there be, after
a while, the first schism
having passed, resentment,
unhappiness, discontent, disillusion?
Lying there, staring
into the darkness, she found
no comfort in the answers
that came to her.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem