Far ahead I’ve felt
little bits and pieces
of me. Have found
myself inside
of me. A piece
has broken off and now
calls itself a different
name. Yours. Now
what to do, keep
loving, like this,
from inside of
everything.
Or leave
and call it fate,
who can argue
with that.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Lots of us leave. And call it `fate'. May be a cop-out route, who's to say? keep on, Paynter.