Lost somewhere in the translations,
I am looking for a solution, not an explanation,
But the time in the book is folded makes
I realized that I don't live here ...

And maybe this is the truth,
A lie has become our habit, for poems is wide and deep.
And we overcome that right. Sprint
we don't have time ...

My soul is jealous of the flowers
only bloom for one day and then fade away,
Logically for someday
as if numbers are defining life.