Stillness
This room, dirty windows and 
pale squares 
were pictures hung, 
has no furniture, 
dust on floorboards 
dance to a tune unheard by man; 
the beauty here is that of 
eternal nothingness, 
the essence of happiness is less, 
yet many fill their 
space with futile objects 
because they can’t bear 
the intrusive silence of bareness.                
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
 
                    