You, who bore a wounded spirit
Between the deaths of laughter and tears,
Are the birthplace of these words.
You, who has experienced dark
In hope of finding eternal light,
Are the motive of my prayers.
You, whose eyes will never grow old;
Whose vision true ‘til the end remains,
Are the purpose of my ken.
You, who survived the breathlessness
In the vacuum of your solitude,
Are the eupnoea of life.
