If it is, then, true
that we have only a number
of heartbeats,
then i lose a few
in hectic flight when i think
of all my beats without you.
Every minute, eighty-eight
steps approaching the pulse
which parts us,
then slips away our fate
for we don't have faith in heaven
let this my sleep abate.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem