sometimes we are between
the known and the unknown
between the familiar and the unfamiliar
then there's nothing that's known;
all we have are suppositions
masquerading as certainties
we must go
where time takes us
and we survive by not holding on;
the train does not stop for us
and we are not to a plan,
there's no schedule
things fall in place again
and the book of life writes itself
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem