It is a strange world
The poet has left the house empty
In my backyard,
A bunch of dried leaves
I picked it up in one corner.
He who leaves is one kind of gone
Memories celebrate him,
It is a strange world and rules
I count the days according to that rule.
Your memory is the work you left behind
Many will show us the way
Finding the motivation to survive this way,
I only get strength from faith.