Because they are aware that it is a joyful time,
leaves are rustling.
As she knows the moment is now, Nightingale is singing.
Owing to our fear of the final reality,
We conjure up delusions.
Knowing we lack fun, we make it instead...
Since there is never a good time, we struggle to live and laugh.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem