The ideal thing is the thought of unreal-
being real of the fantasy is not a movie hits
rather what is inside your heart that move your story.
To seem unclear is to have a bad dream-
it is like a maze looking after the path way.
And yet somebody awakes and tells you-
'you're dreaming, you're here, and 'am here.'
The cautious manner is imperfect to do,
but unconscious gesture makes to correct the
wrong doings you do. To let the heart where it
goes up-climbing your to-do-list because only
written appeared was your name.
To do idealism is simply arrogant to nature,
but to keep yourself real is having sense of bending
and accepting consequences of your birth.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem