IT is not the books
not the words neither is there an
expert way of fishing for
metaphors,
IT is the life lived (and for some
cut so shortly like an unfinished tapestry of
fallen leaves on top of the
flowing skin of the silvery river)
IT is the life that is lived to the fullest extent
no shortcuts, no surrender of the last glimmer of hope,
Till the last day, IT IS our lives that write us
and it that unplanned and
unexpected death
that says the
last words at the last page
of this unpublished
book.
IT IS LIFE
the writer.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem