Recollection is short, fantasy long!
A place where I'd never been born,
must never be born—
On whose behalf
did I go there?
I went with all ten fingers trembling.
With so many kinds of foolishness left back home,
I gazed up toward a few peaks
brilliant at eight thousand meters, their golden blades piled high.
Before that, and after,
I could not help but be an orphan.
I had but one hope:
to stay as far from the Himalayas as humanly possible,
and from the world of troublesome questions.
Yes, that was it.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem