I think perhaps that when you come you won't.
Beating even though the center of your reason is.
The center is the reason why we cry.
I don't and both we know it why, it is for you to still.
It the truth lies still.
When I forget you,
and never for a rapid pulse a single brilliant moment.
and then the sun goes down and quite evening,
how it comes and returning for the second time.
One word, one song, a softly spoken poem.
And your weakest finger points to where it touched me.
My center is so heavy and my breath so quite.
I hold it there, in the middle for you still.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem