There were a lot of small stones on the surface of your territory.
I pick one of them to smell yours.
I attempted to throw it far away to find out your boundary.
I ran to where it reached to get it again.
On that fallen point where my eagerness had been dissipated,
I stood up with the soil grabbed.
A breeze approched and
was wound on wrist which had been waiting for jealous answer.
Sour, pale, transparent, rusty blackening, and finally white fire seeds
flew away from my palm.
I heard reply from the seed which touched the boundary.
I can smell the sound, of which the memory of fire could make fire,
at there and finally walk to out of it.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I heard reply from the seed yes so much is learned simply by listening