There is an exhaustion
that spreads to the hidden
nerve of our lives
when we think of nothing
but just the blanket and the bed
we experience this cold
that is not brought about by a weather
which clings like a leech
in our skin
after the seven storms
we have earned enough defenses
we have learned that
all these are but illusions
shadows on our walls
which we try to hold checking
whether it is real
they slip away
they all slip away
just like that
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem