i thought that i can write
a love poem.
i did but it did not turn out
be one lovely poem.
it is one kind of a sad refrain.
Loveless still, the words scatter themselves
looking for love.
Looking for happiness.
I never found them again.
I am left wordless again.
Until i decided
not to write one, and the words came back again
for they too did not find
love.
Or if they found or so
they thought,
it did not turn out to be true love.
The words exploit
themselves.
It was horrible.
And when i decided to write about anything
except love,
they surrender back to me like some
kind of white doves,
homing.
Here is
home, so peaceful,
and love is not
written here anymore.
This home is
not its home.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem