This is not the first time, but 'tis the last,
For my ends are always new beginnings;
And only I can ever know my whys,
Wherefores and withers, and even why nots?
It is what she grasped in her hand once and
Yet hasn't let go. It's not what she thinks:
Not future or family nor reason
But my right hand which she held, not the left.
They're best left alone, but the right fingers
Are finally right to grasp. Don't let go.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem