What is that, over there in the corner?
Is it a bucket, filled with sadness?
No, that's a coroner, in that corner,
Waiting for the next soul to die.
In the corner, there are many things, and I can't look through them all,
Because so many people walk by,
They dropp pieces of themselves,
Their mind and spirit,
so many pieces that there is a pile of parts:
heaping, filled with nothing,
Everything is spilling over the sides.
Rotting, somethimes disappearing,
but even when it disappears, you can still see what remains
of the countless things that people have dropped,
over there in the corner.
What is that, over there in the corner?
Go look, if you want, but don't blame me for what you see.
I told you to be careful...
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem