Remember those days?
You used to hold my hand lest you fall.
Look at the creeper—
how it coils upward,
the same apprehension,
the same fear of falling.
Nature's instinct:
to rise,
to cling,
to hold the sky in its bosom
with remarkable depth
and clarity.
Lovely spectre.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem