I inhale nocturnal air wide awake.
I meet each of all unknown hours.
I talk to them at my strange work.
I look around and stir the still silence.
I often crave for love swamped hours.
And ruminate bygone warm romance.
A night is a corridor between past and present.
I get myself terribly tottered and newly assembled.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem