one gets used to it
a bland food one gets used
to blandness and it does not
matter anymore whether bland is
bland or not
one suffers the tastelessness
of routine like a road without a bend
where mountains are there and they
are there without anymore significance
to you whether they cast shadows or not
whether they are tall or leveled
whether they can obstruct or they
can make you pass through
if there is a wall you stop
and you cannot pass you turn around
and find another path
it does not really matter
whether it is a lie or truth
what matters most is
this journey that you are taking
and that soon it must be over
without destruction without hurting
those who must remain
those who are still holding their
wineglasses to wait for another cheer
how many years more? it does not matter.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem