It must be my love is far away,
Looking at the musician of luck;
He continues his roaring further
Than the man else, living well.
Tireless waiting, stating and catering
Rampages on, like a solution.
It must be at length the strength,
Now the loving falls away.
Roaring is like open struggle,
Music has a way of living.
My love is faster than the love,
Loathing is created for certain reasons.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem