Often they ask me
how I am doing.
Do I really know?
Still, I say, I'm good.
It has become a habit.
Good? What is it?
What is life, after all?
A one-time experience—
a chance that happened
by chance.
An accident that may end
at any moment.
An unexpected turning point.
Bubbles form.
They burst.
Even a bubble has life—
do we care?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem