There are no permanent
fogs
mists have temporary
lives
dew too short to be with
leaves of grass
we sometime forget the
essence of merely being here
only for a while
and then be gone
we do not even ask where
they are going
it is this too much familiarity
that kills the awe
that loses that strange taste of
wonder
some people stumble because
they are looking at the stars
and those whose faces have
taken the shapes of stones
keep on laughing
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem