She is sick
in a running hell
far off me;
far off the land of mine and hers.
Her visiting mind
tweets mine
and I fall sick of anxious pangs.
Down with worries
wish I could fly
to the place she may lie
and tell her
we are sick of such a disease
that nothing can catch us
and we will never die.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem