There are
to many times.
The way
day rhymes with night.
Looking,
I am who can sit.
You look at
from the mountain
tall and high?
It seems that
I like lily.
By the pond.
Without thorns
I see one rose
but
it looks odd.
Out of place
it has
the feel off that?
Like the bird
that sees a worm.
In mid flight
but has a fever.
Without feathers.
And on hearing
that two without
one ever being
had before.
Both never had.
When it called,
good morning
and the
morning, Lied!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem