When others were hammering through her,
He chose to brush his way through
Without raising dust motes in the air;
Yet his efforts revolved within whirling shadows.
When dust motes which spurted from
The thudding of the others' hammers
Around him attacked his eyes,
And a rock heaved itself upon him;
He became a loss and a memory.
He lost his soft, sweet taste when all
Fell on him and lowered him to the mud.
...She was hard and disallowed softness.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem