Sometimes I think the curse is over:
It's all expunged.
I don't have to write anymore!
But then I excavate some more
feelings of sadness
and out comes the ink.
Well,
like blood spatter
on a white wall,
the melancholia
keeps on
dripping
out of my eyes and
out of my fingers and
I am cursed to write
some more...
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem