It may not be a poem,
yet it is, if feeling lives inside -
pleasure or pain,
a sense of endlessness,
a loss known to no one
but a handful of words.
Sometimes they hold the feeling - intact.
Sometimes they only skim the surface
and drift away.
Still, for the writer,
those words are enough -
the truest shape
the moment could take.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem