The last moment in a day is spent with the dying breath of a lost soul
In the moment of triumph
The last sorrow is spent on the person who is just another face in the crowd
Who never got a moment to explain
The possibility of a happiness that everyone had felt but him
The last message that goes into the ancient telegram, meant for a century later
Imitates the romance that Paris is known for
And soothes the jealous heart of raging madness
That a love lost has caused.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem