I stepped on one vague word after another.
Just for the understanding eyes, drifting through this article.
Street without echo, you are a dream week.
In Dream Week, my poems are often hung on the beach.
I watch you with the wind.
Dream Week is a butterfly dance poem.
Turn around and express my loneliness.
The door is a heartbeat, which is a bit beautiful.
The distant morning began to think inexplicably.
It's sunny, so you are sunny.
How blue the wind on your hands is!
Olives that have been in love will turn green
It's like a green dream in my hand.
A celadon-like smell made me sour and moved.
That night, an olive took away the spring.
I often regret writing poetry, eating and excreting.
The only commemoration of life is to express it in words.
My loneliness. Soaking olives is poetic.
Just as a poet admits love and believes in an olive.