it is the time
not to speak about how many
ripe pomeloes are there
how many is your share
whether you have
the sweetest of them
all
you are in your bed
beside you a glass window
you can see strangers
passing by
that road farther
upon counted breaths
you no longer wonder
what their dreams are.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem