when a stone
grows its roots
when it rises into
a sprout
into a bush into a
flower
into fire we are
surprised
we are not prepared
for all these
we have remained our
own unbelievers
when something turns
into mist
blooms into clouds
we finally meet
them as rain
we touch back
and close our eyes
we feel them all again
by faith and not by sight.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem