The Soul's Migration

I have gained so little from my life,
achieved nothing truly great—
this thought haunts me constantly.

I'm not doing anything remarkable either,
yet I know—
I must try with everything I have.
But... how much do I really have?

Will I be able to do anything at all?
Is it sinful to even hope for this?

Perhaps I'm not doing anything worthwhile,
but I keep trying to give my heart courage.

In this moment, in my small world—
you are the only one
who held a little space for me in your heart's depths...
even if that space was only for a while.

I know—
I don't deserve any of this.
Yet I waited for you;
you did so much for me—
I am forever grateful.

Have you noticed—
"I always smile"?
When you take my hand—
my heart fills with joy.
Every moment spent with you
is so precious to me,
I could never make you understand.

You told me—
not to think about these things;
you said—
"We all live with pain."

You know, these days I can't think of anything else.
A suffocating anguish surrounds me always.
Why can't we know what's inside someone by looking at the outside?

If you knew—
how fragile I am...
could you have held me close, just a little?

I'm no good at pretending,
so in the race to keep people, I lose again and again.
These feelings that speak to me about you—
how can I silence them, tell me?

With heaps of anguish, tears, and loneliness
they want to remain bound only to you.
What does it matter anyway?

Let them be as they are,
and you remain—
just as you are.