I had my dinner a few minutes ago.
Nothing much to do at this hour.
I took my Android in hand
and posed a question to myself —
how does a poet write a poem?
I know there will be many answers.
Every answer will have an explanation.
Every explanation will have interpretations.
Every interpretation will be critiqued.
The poet was not aware of all these afterthoughts.
I think — and this I think —
a poet's mind suddenly finds some light,
or some darkness even in daylight.
He then goes to a state of existence
unknown to himself.
A few words follow one after another,
often meaningless —
unlike these
that are being assembled here and now.
A poet is a crazy fellow
who is often not familiar
with his own existence.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem