I am like raw papers,
Write, read or make burnt,
Will turn in to burned dust,
And will get lost.
I am the memory of friends,
Forget, recall or do not remember,
I will get lost.
Sometime in temple, sometime in graveyard,
I enjoyed the most, at being satisfied.
Sometime, I became ink, filled in pen,
Alike not detached, for birth then.
Sometime I became glass, crushed to stone,
I enjoyed the most, at being content then.
Even though,
I am like raw papers,
Write, read or make burnt,
Will turn in to burned dust,
And will soon get lost.
I am the memory of friends,
Forget, recall or do not remember,
I will soon get lost.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem