There is no glue that binds one to
And hugs as much as feelings,
But a wise man decides when he‘s had enough
So chooses other stuff-
And heads for what‘s appealing.
But that man is usually born alone
And he dies alone-
A bondsman at his tiller,
When he lives, indeed he may fly-
But when he dies, he perpetually dies-
And the in-betweens?
Unrecoverable-
And is naught-caulked like filler.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem