Not remembering which day
I began to write poetry,
I recall only that it rained.
Crowds gathered
in front of a gate,
trembling, waiting for the sky to clear.
Around the gate I walked
into a desolate yard
where fallen petals covered the ground.
Piece by piece I picked them up
and placed them on my heart.
That day I was soaked.
Coming out of the yard,
I turned into a poet.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem