along the white sands
on a sunny morning by the sea
i collect shells and
pebbles
there are too many of them
but only few are chosen
the only standard is that
'i like this' and there is no other more
and then you put all those few ones
in my pocket
and when i arrive at the cottage
i view them all atop the table
it is the viewing that keeps the mind busy
and so busy that it cannot listen
to each story that the pebble wants to tell
that the mouth of the shell wants
to say beautifully in a song
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem