Rising early in the morning, giving me respite from the night.
Wandering aimlessly through years of musical interludes,
never complaining about any part of it.
Daydreaming every afternoon in a trance, befitting a musician.
Solitarily, living alone in an empty house.
Always being in charge of nothing special, leaving everything
in the dust of yesterday.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem