A glass,
in a window,
what is it to I?
Why must,
I care if it is full?
Empty,
cracked,
broken,
chipped,
scratched,
or foggy?
The glasses are everywhere,
yet I see them all as glasses.
All that don't want to be shattered.
Some want to float away.
Some want to break.
They are still glasses.
All are beautiful.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem