I write our names on the page.
What of it, if the paper will be burned?
I write our names in the sand.
What of it, if the shore will be washed by waves?
I write our names on trees that will be cut
and benches that will be painted,
but what of it?
I will keep on writing our names
because in this world of ephemera,
you and I are the only constant.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem