No more profound pain in this present,
It is a real gain in the shadow crescent,
Nobody's life is entirely free of any sorrow,
All you created without a need to borrow.
The mind always seeks to deny the current,
Intensity of pain depends in this moment,
Imagine the Earth devoid of human being,
All weneed istime; mind of a well being.
And when we are gone, we are forgotten,
Without a trace, as if we never even existed,
And that's all, a simple and a fine life,
Well lived, fine loved in a mild silent way.
When a dwelling has just lost its soul,
a wounded silence falls over,
the sudden emptiness,
that no one will fill again.
And all the noises that may be made later,
in that house will be like a scandalous din,
ugly echoes from one room to another,
from one corridor to another.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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