somehow our roads must
not meet
i prefer that they remain
to be so many distances
apart
there is no need
you are on your own
path of
bliss
there is no need for you
to confront me
about my own choice
i am dusty
and i have no story to tell
about sunshine
perhaps there is a tiny thing
and it will
be about the last rain
that fell
upon the arms of dead wood
there is nothing there
except the hollowness
the fibers that give you nothing
but meaningless lines
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Good composition.....