From the star of Bethlehem
If we draw a line
We shall find
It doesn't end in pieta
It recycles
Painting a caravan for hundreds of years
With the apostle of peace
Time indeed isn't a desert
Yet we imagine it to be
For a ripe fruit of Eden
With a few fig leaves
We draw a curtain of mist
Who else can crawl
In the arid desert
Except the serpent of our thoughts
With the venom we exist
With the hope
We draw our crucifix
For not only a century
But for myriads of cycles
We promise to live.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem