Sometimes you'd fall asleep with your eyes open to catch the sky between your eyelids like you would keep a butterfly between two fingers
and you're thinking that from all the clouds on Earth, the tear is the purest and most alive.
so alive that the children lose it from their eyes easy,
and it transforms their sight in a window fogged by the heat of the stove in a winter day
the tear is chilling like a red apple orchard.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.