The ground falls away,
a distant memory of steadiness,
its warmth replaced
by the cold tension of the line.
Each step is a question,
answered by the sway
of a trembling wire,
its voice a soft hum
beneath the weight of balance.
The world stretches narrow,
a single thread
drawn through air
that presses close,
heavy with silence.
There is no room for fear here,
only the rhythm of motion,
the trust in a moment
that could break or hold,
the sky watching,
indifferent and vast.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem