the winter capricious
and sharp breeze
of the night is surprising
with importunity of the wind
my helplessness is manifesting
itself with the helplessness
of cold, skipped hands
and the lack of the warmth
the life is leaking out from us
when we don't realize
that it not so and it is necessary to recover
from an illness not only for itself
somebody counts on us
somebody for us is counting
somebody for us is counting
what we still count on (?)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem