Dried dirt and water mixed,
Can and will produce thick mud.
Depending on the amount.
And making a leisurely walk through it,
An experience many will find unpleasant.
No one brags with a standing in quicksand.
Craving chocolate to taste...
Instead of a rope or a tree branch,
Held by someone to rescue them...
From a dire circumstance.
But then...
Who would blindly step into quicksand,
Thinking it to be cemented...
By the falling of Autumn leaves.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem