It's a coincidence, look at my name
Just like the name of the city, it's called Paterson.
There have been some famous people in this city and some poets have lived here
And I'm an ordinary bus driver
Driving an old-fashioned bus from Monday to Friday
Carrying a group of people of all kinds shuttles through the streets
Find a quiet corner by yourself during lunch
Occasionally write a few lines of poetry in my secret notebook
.
Life is always calm as water is a constant cycle from Monday to Sunday
And the words that fly through my mind like birds
Like tiles that make a series of ripples on the water
Sometimes I don't want the whole world to see this collection of poems
But she appreciates the desire to publish a collection of poems to share with the world
I promised to come down and prepare a copy on Sunday
.
On Saturday she went to the market stall to sell cupcakes she baked
When she came back, she was happy to tell me that it was all sold out. It was a big hit.
She proposed to buy me dinner and watch a movie
It's true that we haven't seen an old movie in a while.
It was interesting to watch a horror movie "Island of the Dead" tonight
Came home to find my poetry collection smashed by a bulldog
It's my fault for leaving it on the sofa
.
In the face of this pile of debris, I am helpless and speechless
All the sentences are shattered and the birds of inspiration have lost their wings
Years of memory suddenly disappeared
what is poetry
I think it's a surprise caught in an ordinary life
And all the surprises at the moment are beyond recognition and surprises become my surprise
.
I shut the dog out but it doesn't solve anything
I went out to relax and passed all the places I know
Where I drive the bus every day
where i write the next line
Some things really can't come back, they exist and they're broken
It's hard to piece together, it's just self-defeating
.
I sit on a bench and the sun warms the ground after the morning
In front of me is an iron bridge with a waterfall flowing under it
A flock of white birds hovering above
I'm silent and speechless like those fragmented poems
Then a Japanese man spoke broken English and started talking to me.
He came here to see a poet's former residence
We both love poetry and we chatted briefly for a while
He gave me a notebook before leaving
.
The poems I once wrote are indeed broken, but new poems are waiting for me to piece together
Those surprises that belong only to the past I remember I had them and that's enough
There will be new flowers on the grave of that secret notebook
The new secret notebook is so new and shining in the sun
With that in mind, I took a pen out of my pocket
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