When obsession takes hold,
nothing else enters consciousness.
Lovers do not think of death.
The dying do not remember love.
The world is seen through a tunnel,
the field of view is narrow.
There may be an ordinary scene,
a flower, a woman, a dream.
There may be a harbinger of death,
tombstones of obscure ghosts.
Beyond this stage, the clouds drift,
unobserved and silent.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem