The patchy life goes together
with her monotonous career.
He roams around in the vicinity of her district.
A destitute man of letters who is searching his old publisher friend.
...
The potter's daughter; like her father's craftsmanship
very beautiful to her *pinafore dress and the pigtails.
He sniffs when I ring the bicycle bell
during my routine delivery of their daily bread.
...
She blooms secretly in an unflappable graveyard.
And who sympathizes for the immature except a grave-digger?
She dreams of a soft heart butterfly and stagnates with the dead souls.
Who understands her soft spot, language and the soggy heart?
...
I scribbled on a scratch paper to her
It's a full Moon to the desert here too.
Her last perfomance for the year of 2005.
Do you remember the day you told me
...
Not only the muscles of the hand
his heart too got cramps
and the writing paper refused,
pen has hidden somewhere.
...
Chrysanthemums are flowering in autumn and the faded leaves of flamboyant trees blown with the autumn winds.
The time has come to whitewash the churchyard tombs and I can hear my chum's silent song like a chirping.
...
In the poor visibility
the old Lighthouse stands.
Sun murmurs his usual prayer
'off for the day my dear'.
...
The reckless drivers like a jet fly and they think the road is a sky.
These two personnel hold a circular sign on a stick to stop traffic.
And the children cross the road.
...
My son will be a polite king in the near future,
A farthest poor country.
I am sure that you donate all the horses
To a zoo and travel in a public bus.
...
In the wind chill,
A broken-wing lavish bird
Crash-land to my wistful world
and begged for a shelter.
...