More tender than tenderness
Is your face,
Whiter than white
Is your hand,
Your mind is so far
From the entire world,
And everything in you
Is made of inevitable.
Made of inevitable
Your sadness was,
And your fingers,
Which get never cold,
And the quiet sound
Of your cheerful words
And eternity
In your eyes.
December 1909 (Translated Sept 30,2005)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
nice.......................