there will be discontents
expected, not at all strange
but to be a casualty of such
lack, what misfortune
can that be,
be simple, take patience
on slow doses
what discontent is there
soon can be
cured
life can be nothing but a sigh
smoke your boring hours
let that white spirit rise
to the chimney and then to the skies
take a deep breathe
ponder, the journey soon shall be over
there will be meetings
of joys and bliss
then you leave all things behind
like the eddies of the dusts in the air
like the bubbles of soap
you think they were all big
ah, they're nothing....
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem