You move with the grace of quiet waters,
light tracing your steps as if afraid to let go.
Each gesture, a whisper of wind,
each glance, a soft brush against time.
The world rushes, but you remain,
weightless in the current,
untouched by noise
that never seems to reach you.
Some beauty does not ask to be seen,
it simply exists,
like a feather drifting,
never falling, never forced.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem