I Detest pen that never
bestows wings to spirit.
Wings that never
step up towards mountain.
Mountain that never
pours oil in moon's lamp.
Moon that never
hovering around forest.
Forest that never
surrounded by rustle wings.
Detest all of that..
but I soothe in sigh of character,
in a silo poem's.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem