Pick up the dearest then face
Whenever it reaches your hands
Read this book of mine.
With real flowers
Take me.
When life plays in the morning,
Neglected like a wounded bird,
When the raft of separation in the crowd.
When all is lost,
O Birhi, come and get it.
You are lonely
Neither rain nor tears,
Do not understand who is real, who is fake.
Of the ocean of pain
Search near,
How much is left to give light
The life of the lamp.
You look at his face in despair,
I think this is a gift from him.