Love of life doesn't always exist, isn't tangible,
is irrelevant.
Whenever events happen to shake our world, we find
ourselves alone in a different space than those
around us.
What happens there? Are we aware? Why is it that
these thoughts fill our minds and cause us such
loneliness?
Can we not count on anything or anyone? What about
ourselves?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem