I'm human, and I'm not a god.
I can't beat every odd.
I can't help it when you say
your lack of perfection isn't for me.
You gaze above at the dawn,
waiting to see the sun that shines.
Who likes a tired crescent,
surviving beyond its time?
I am the gentle autumn rain.
I am the sanity hidden in the insane.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem