Young goals massively exist,
Like the wombs of the mothers.
Never in the happy world is darkness
A void, but a night of holy silence.
A womb spilt blood when in darkness
As it is darkness that is spilt by the day.
Each and every day carries warmth of the stars,
No matter when the day stops.
The goals of youth are like these days and nights,
Why do young men and women exist?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem