Reality is a paper
That is going to be torn.
It is easy to hear
As tearing the paper.
But hardly easier to put it up.
It is a blank sheet
Which gives no sense.
It is a photo frame
Without any photo.
Like the hidden sun
The verity darkens its face
To congregate with the time.
It reflect itself like the mirror
But to a blind.
The truth lock itself
With the key of time.
But once it will stand up
Towards our eyes.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem