It comes, it goes.
It is many things,
peacful, demented, or depressing.
Never will you have it twice the same.
Always it just comes.
Always on the tip of your tounge,
inside and ready to be free.
It will go if you don't act fast,
always on the run.
Going from person to person,
having some fun.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem