Every time, it is your
Faux Pas. It giggles to collect
the past, when we cried together.
Who was your teacher
to make you walk on the edge of love and
hate. The chaos of snatching the name was high.
The essence of care
and philosophy of mode of it is
which is not in our hands.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem