so love is not the tall hill with its gorges,
steep sides, wintersnows, nor the avalanches,
not its summer forests, nor autumn el ninos,
it is not the wild life or flora or mighty fauna,
Love is a tiny mouse in an obscure hole in the high hill,
that sees all lightenings that hit th ehill,
that hears all thunders that strike the hill,
counts all raindrops on it,
love is that small but useful.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.