Because of my poems,
people think
that you are beautiful,
but
behind these pages
there is another form of you
that is real and colorless.
Even your eyes
are in monochrome shades.
But here where is nowhere,
on this cellulose bed of mine
even without ink
I'm scratching your name, smiling
because long long ago
I have loved you
more than you have loved me,
and though you have shed me
like a dirty sock
I have made peace with you.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem