When I return,
Would I still remember the scents of the flowers in my garden?
How they danced in the winds and mingled with the bees…
When I return,
Could my piano still weave a melody?
Or would it croak a tragedy?
When I return,
Would I see my friends’ faces, and not recognize them?
Passing them by, their names not remembered, their faces forgotten?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem