When to him, you make it tilt,
it is perhaps at noon,
white full the moon, too soon.
The world of which you feel,
and then again perhaps.
Your center as it cries,
it whispers to you this agony.
Forever looking, never touching,
speaking backwards, coming out.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
The first thing that comes to my mind when I read this poem is; Beautiful, simply beautiful and so lovely, and yet a bit sad.. But i love it none the less... Very well done! !