Even promising clouds
driven by a strong wind
and far away from the high mountains
know not the course of theirs journey;
the sea appearing calm and gentle pay heed
to no whims.
It roars to itself
with a punctured thought.
Then prediction
an unworthy and always been suspended;
time speaks thereupon
in order of merit.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem