What are you thinking?
I'm not thinking anything.
I do think
you think too much.
What do you care?
I don't care.
Care is something
I've placed in a pile
with the crumpled papers.
Why do you love?
Why?
Is there such thing
as a reason as to why
I love each and every
person, place, and thing?
Do you hate me?
Hatred accomplishes
nothing.
We surely would
have been given
a dark, infinite aperture
to reserve animosity.
Please refrain
from asking
such foolish questions
if all along
they've been placed
right in front of you.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem