"Are you okay over there?
Feeling lonely?
Will the sky turn red at sunset?
Are the birds still singing on the way to the forest?
Can you receive the letter that I dare not send?
Can I express my confession that I dare not admit?
Time will pass, will roses wither? "
I don't have 5 million to atone for you.
You can only write one poem.
I am aging rapidly.
Azhamo's illness gradually made me forget all the words.
First nouns, then verbs.
Then, I will forget you, my grandson and my daughter.
I forgot the beautiful call of my childhood sister, and finally it was myself.
I will forget love, hate and all the good and evil.
So, before that, I want to write a poem.
At every moment when all the memories spin away.
I tried, I tried squatting on the side of the road to write a poem.
I watched the trees in the sun and listened to the birds singing.
I picked up the fallen apricots and tasted them.
What should I leave to return my mind to the world I am about to leave?
You should also send something to your dead world.
My feelings, my memory, pain and confession.
Only poetry.
"Now it's time to say goodbye,
It seems that the wind has stopped and left.
Like a shadow,
Promise me you'll never come back,
For the love that has been hidden,
Kiss the grass on my tired ankle,
The small steps behind me,
It is time to say goodbye. "
I went to your requiem mass.
The priest said that you would be happier in heaven than in this world.
I don't believe it. I can't get comfort.
I know how much pain you suffered before giving up your life.
But maybe you are the apricot that fell to the ground?
The juicy meat crushed by wheels and trampled by feet is blurred, only preparing for the afterlife.
I say this because I'm an apricot, too.
After mass, I stole your photo.
I put it on the dining table to remind my grandson,
He doesn't even know that what he did to you is unforgivable.
Children who are too young even have no soul.
Seeing your photo, he only stayed for a second.
Just pick up the remote control and watch TV.
The lights on the screen flashed on his young face.
The light struck my heart like lightning.
Then he smiled mercilessly.
How dirty this is.
How many such crimes are there in the days of hypocrisy, and no one has ever asked for forgiveness.
What is the sin of never asking for forgiveness, if not the greater sin?
The world is a dump.
I write poems in the garbage dump.
Maybe living in poetry
So I can get away from this dirty.
This may be an escape.
Now I have nothing.
Only poetry.
"Now that night is coming,
Will the candle still be lit?
I'm praying here,
Everyone stopped crying,
Let you know,
How much I love you.
In the hot summer afternoon, a long wait.
That old road is like my father's face.
Lonely wildflowers, quietly disappearing. "
They said that a sum of money could solve the problem.
Take care of the school, the media and your mother.
I can't believe they even held a celebration. What are we celebrating?
Celebrate your lucky escape?
Can they escape the punishment of the mind?
They asked me to talk to your mother.
Use my life to arouse her sympathy.
Don't forget to shed two tears, they said.
So I went. I'm sorry I went.
I forgot what they taught me to say.
I just want to say I'm sorry.
But in this way, I finally can't talk.
So I went to the place where you threw yourself into the river.
The wind blew my hat up, floated and fell into the river.
So white, so light, drifting with the wind.
Like your young life.
Since I can't say I'm sorry.
What else can you use to torture yourself and purify yourself?
Only silence.
Only poetry.
"I love her so much,
Every time I hear your faint voice,
My heart is throbbing.
I pray for you,
Before I cross the river of darkness,
With the last breath of my soul.
I started dreaming,
A sunny morning.
I woke up again,
Sting by the sun,
I met you,
You're standing right next to me. "
But I can't write poetry.
I can't write a poem with all my strength.
Only a few scattered and pale words can be drawn on the notebook.
When I was a child, my teacher said to me
Miko, will you be a poet when you grow up?
How old was I then? Nine, or 10.
Now I am 66 years old.
What have I done in these fifty years?
I did not become a poet.
I can't even write a poem.
So I asked everyone I talked to.
How can I write a poem?
The poet said
There is a poem in everyone's heart.
Spread your wings and it will fly out of my heart.
What is it tied with?
I tried my best to untie it and make it fly.
Fly to the other side of the world, fly to your side
Well, now it's time to say goodbye.
I left you this poem.
Narcissus song
Do you know who Sisyphus is?
He is also a man who drowned himself.
Some people say that he died of narcissism.
No, he died in the desolation of the world.
He died of his beauty and could not share it with anyone.
Beauty is a hot breakfast in the morning.
Beauty is that an aging woman like me still wears a gorgeous skirt.
Beauty is the pure look in your eyes when you look back home before committing suicide.
We all know the most beautiful time.
The hourglass of memory and life has almost reached the bottom.
What can reverse it?
Reverse evil and ugliness, sin and pain?
What brings us to the afterlife?
Only love.
Only poetry.