Sleep is a transitory death—
And death, an eternal sleep.
This drowsy time between sleep and death
Is what we call life.
I don't believe in rebirth—
Yet, after every sleep, I'm born anew,
Just as I die each time I sleep.
In dreams, the past pulls me—
The sudden calls of the past
Make me turn around,
But I don't walk back.
Look back, but don't walk.
Trying to revive a dead relationship
After its death defies
The laws of nature.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem