Silence sprouting within, growing quieter over time,
never uttering a whisper out of hand.
Listening to chords being reproduced in measures of
harmonies, letting all the silent spirits fall out
onto floors of tomorrow's tiers.
Hastening times of grief falling beneath coverlets
of age, finding that life is still present even
though it no longer has a voice to utter a word to
anyone in life's winding stances of music.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem