Things around are changing rapidly.
Some ask for my opinion and some don't.
When asked, I wouldn't be sure of what I want.
When not asked, I would have a heartfelt desire for the other thing.
Finally, what's with me now is not what I wished for.
And what I wished for has never held my hands.
Still, life is going on without a life to it.
Should I be grateful for not living this life?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem