Like sand, blow by the wind,
I wonder shining at the sun,
among us silent.
The very thought
that once we hide
be lost in the wind,
for death is without recurrence
Can such an shell
his accidental circumstances exist?
When the doors of truth are like foams that set.
Because every man,
therefore, may tend to madness.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem