April 15,2005
As I told you,
we are true to ourselves
in only two instances:
in love and death.
If we are lucky,
we find someone to love,
and they love us back.
And I've been lucky.
Then we die,
and we don't love death,
and death doesn't love us.
No, death doesn't love us back,
nor money either.
Love and death—
they strip off our masks,
strip us naked
to live our lives authentically
if only for awhile.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem