An essential number in life belongs to the number
two, yet we live our lives as one most of the time,
always looking for one more to enter our environment.
A tasteless synonym forging the future in our minds
until we die, expiring on lasting episodes left us,
as we wend our way into the future.
The loneliest number is two minus one, existing
alone in an atmosphere where only one can exist.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem