So far my knowledge goes,
Nothing is original.
The earth, the sky,
The air, the water
Even the light.
Nothing is original.
And I care not this life,
To embrace death,
Once I was on hunger strike,
In our capital city
Before the king, ministers
And before all.
But death fears me and
Dare not to come.
And I conclude
Death is also not original.
Nothing is original
The birds, the flowers,
The clouds, the waves,
The colors, the friends
And even the friends.
But I am with them.
Am I original?
No one can say
Definitely what I am.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem