Someday we will rise
until the white clouds
and then from them we will fall down,
because they're fragile when you have them.
A sound which I can't hear.
A color which you can't see.
An aroma which she can't feel.
A surface which we can't touch.
I went in search of those pleasures;
killed by men and buried by time.
But, the great authors' love
it was my great setback.
There's nothing more heavenly,
except knowing which loving is essential
and even not feeling transcendent
being able to love unconditionally.
— The End —