Monday is in the heart,
And Tuesday on the nerves.
It's neither in the day,
Not in the blossom hay.
But it lays in our brain:
Our knowledge that is trained,
To see it as it's called,
And see it not as flawed.
Man believes what he will:
All dwell in his instinct.
18: 06: 12: 16: 00
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem