Wouldn't we get enough of love?
With the smell emanating from the soil, a thin ache that struggles within us comes to us.
If you raise your head and reach your hand among the silent leaves, the autumn/spring stories that permeate your tongue will bleed from the inside.
Ah, while I was saying to myself, now I'm hanging in the sky in a different place from each other. My logic is out of date. I'm dreaming in crowds. I understand how much I love you, I can't hide myself, my sorrows are flooding.
I think long and hard:
I've traveled a long way to reach you under the blue. With my mistakes that I tried to judge, my failure to realize your privileges is now moaning...
How long has it been since I wrote you a letter? Shouldn't hear your voice. My sincere, loving soul drifts randomly from place to place. Just like a dried branch among gray fuzzy trees that have been hollowed out.
However, I was getting used to saying everything is already behind. The cry of a bird tears my heart. You do not exist. Beyond the city lifts its veil. I can't stand the downpour in my throat and cry a thousand times with regret.
In the first breath of September, the leaves turn yellow in front of me.
I'm on guard with the rains.
The marks of the hooves are still on my skin.
I touched the dying papers in silence.
How many times have I knelt down while praying for your forgiveness from our wounds in my hands.
However, while our story was in contact with words, we would encircle the geography of the earth, make it green and sprout in memories. The moonlight would fall on our streets. We would hug the oars with our boats against the current, where the daisies grew with their yellow and white colors. As my mini-mini poems grew, they would be a beam of light at your window.
Wouldn't we get enough of love?