Since when no bloom bee has brought,
Since when no root rain has revived,
Swirling slowly in strangury, love is suffocated.
Yet do I sense assimilation of the selves,
Yet do I sense debacle of the self,
Shriveling swiftly in shivering, I am severed.
Defoliators toil punctual fall wounds, deafened;
Yet do I hear clearer heart’s pith,
Surely the eternal quest for a true love is not forgotten?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem