Time washes your thighs in sand.
I who wash like you in the seashore.
It was me whom of you some write from bed.
Do not turn away that other way,
because it the waves must continue.
The years have been for me boring.
Normal I am not but you are?
Predictable the white fine sand,
between your toes I stop to greet.
Crossing something walks.
Oh my and it is.
Growing larger as it receeds.
This time of the year of the rat.
This time of the year of my cat.
I paiently wait for the monkey.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem