there is no
way of measuring
the joy of
a poem, no kind
of metaphor
to boost its beauty,
than this: my secret
love, you are
coming back at last...
even if not
in my arms, even if
not my
love as your
reason,
even if, you are
still not
mine,
there is no kind
of joy that
a poem can give
except that
at last, you are
coming back
to us...
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem