Hunt a sentence this day to the next,
One can not find a finer one
Than the very joke I have reasoned with.
What is this joke? What is that joke?
I can not see anyone with flowers,
But I see everyone with words
And they differ: ever so much.
A sentence such as this is enough
And what is this humorous one?
It is the very subject and predicate of our souls -
“Sentences are written not said.”
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem