on any bits
of paper
that has enough
clear space
for my complex
thoughts.
I freeze
the moment
of inspiration
like Bresson did
with his photography.
And when
he was asked
what's
the darkened
spot
on the photo
he'd answer
it was dust
part
of the image.
And if you ask me
what am I writing
about
I'd answer
you'll know
soon enough.
Or not.
And to my wife
I'd tell,
Save it!
You never know
how precious
it may become.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem