How short is the short for you,
How long is the long for you?
Depends on what you think is your shelf life.
But why look at the jar when the pickle is not the North Star.
There is nothing short, nor long,
If you realise your song is the mist of every morn.
The cloud of empty skies, the leaf beside naked thorns.
The fallen flower, the growing bud.
Torrential rain, and galleons of drought.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem