Knowing nothing of future lifetimes, always walking runnedly
into spaces prepared beforehand.
Likely aspects continuing down mountain slopes, skiing towards
endeavors of fate's behavior on boards of fashionable displays.
Leaving behind every particle of knowledge as circular patterns
catch designs in eddies of peculiar circumstances.
Finding nothing of life in times of being, following moments of
death, creeping nearer to my soul.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem