Faint traces some have leaving left,
one hdden path I seek.
Climates change behind the Snow,
the valley it is deep.
Dreaming, deeply sleeping,
every night, I hold on to my life.
I pluck a foreign object,
from each passing star in sight.
Modern herbs that make him whole,
flowers in the snow.
Bones are white as darkness hides,
the marrow in the light.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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