Like the man who said that when sharpening a pencil in the middle of
night he could smell the aroma of a soul filling the room
I would like to
write poems only with a pencil
I am afraid of my life which, once written,
cannot be erased
Writing with a pencil
Erasable life correctable life sad
preparation of one who wishes to be forgiven
I want such life
I am always
an imperfect half
I wish even the half would be accepted
Writing with a pencil
I wish the misled ways could be corrected by each other
I would not be disheartened even if what I’ve done proudly and truthfully is to be
erased
I don’t want to leave anything
It’s not the cowardice of someone who
wants to hide
It’s love I would like to meet only with the aroma of a soul
