Is reality actually a fantasy or an illusion?
Are we developing it as we go through life, thinking
and inventing according to our whims or values?
Living each in our own reality makes it seem that
this is true as no one has the same life as another.
Are we then producing lives we are living, according
to our past, our attitudes and opinions?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem