Leaves fall without a sound,
the wind carries them away,
without questions, without regret.
A footprint in wet sand,
there for a moment, then gone,
erased by time.
Bodies return to the earth,
like rain to the sea,
like breath fading into the air.
Dying is not an end,
but a movement,
like everything that lives.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem