A meeting, with future, so short:
You're glimpsing yourself in the mirror,
And a sudden desire to yourself abort.
Not ever to live in this horror,
The time is, of course, your foe.
What's future? A fiction...
This mirror, disgusting, you'll touch nevermore,
Your mind wants to avoid any friction.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem