The last is never
as beginnings are forever.
What a way we have
finding what is lost.
Seeing what is past
just after prevention.
Having a borrowed feast,
consumed, but always owing.
Leaving behind
forecasts and ammunition.
Why go there
when everything is waiting?
Taking liberties for granted.
The end is only near.
Drowning in awareness
too close to dream.
The world spins
with lively interpretations.
It's too close to call.
Too silent to speak.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem