Only a fool rushes,
you said—chasing the wind, reaching for twilight's hue.
But what of love that arrives unbidden,
when eyes meet by chance, without signal, without intention?
Is it a sin if the heart quickens its beat,
at first sight, in a fleeting moment so brief?
Lips have yet to promise, fate has yet to speak,
but something stirs within, touching the soul in silence.
People keep falling in love, though already bound,
by vows or rings, hearts still wander and lose their ground.
Is it wrong, or merely human,
to love another though love is already held in hand?
Perhaps not a sin, but a wound concealed,
between unspoken words and feelings that never yield.
Love is a secret, a mystery we cannot foresee,
and sometimes, rushing is the only way the heart can speak.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem