Short is the human story,
incomplete the whistler’s song.
Death is a gift
we beg of fortune.
At the height of the day
it springs up at the front door.
Life may be short,
but it is a very long road,
resembling a just-born butterfly
which becomes itself.
Possibly
it is our childhood
we hide in our breast pocket—
the scent of a silk handkerchief
Translated by: M. Ali Sulutas
Edited in English by: Susan Bright
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