Are you lonely? Will the
sky turn red at sunset? Are the
birds still singing on the road to the woods?
Can you receive a letter I dare not send?
I can express Do I dare not admit the confession?
Time will pass, will the rose wither? "
I don't have five million to atone for you.
Can only write one poem.
I am getting old quickly.
Alzheimer's disease gradually made me forget all words.
First, nouns, then verbs,
and then, I will forget you, my grandson, my daughter,
forget the beautiful call of my childhood sister, and finally myself.
I will forget love, hate, and all the good and evil.
So, before this, I want to write a poem
. Every moment when all the memories are spinning and disappearing,
I work hard, squatting on the roadside, writing a poem.
I observe the tree in the sun and listen to the singing of the birds.
I picked it up and landed on the ground.
My apricot, taste it. I should leave something to the world
that I am determined to leave. I should also send something to your dead world.
My feelings, my memories, pain and confession.
Only poetry.
"Now is the time to say goodbye,
just like the wind stayed and gone.
Like a shadow,
promised never to come back,
for the love that has always been hidden,
for the soft kiss of the grass on my tired ankle,
and follow The little steps behind me
are time to say goodbye."
I went to your Requiem Mass. The
pastor said that you are happier in the heavenly council than in this world.
I don't believe it, I can't get comfort.
I know how much pain you endured before you gave up your life.
But maybe you are the apricot that fell on the ground?
The juicy flesh that was crushed by the wheels and trampled by the feet was blurred, just to prepare for the next life.
I say this because I am also an apricot.
After Mass, I stole your photo.
I put it on the dinner table to remind my grandson that
he didn't even know that what he did to you is unforgivable.
Children who are too young don't even have a soul.
Seeing your picture, he stayed for only a second.
Just pick up the remote control and watch TV as if nothing had happened.
The light on the screen flickered and shone on his youthful face.
The light struck my heart like lightning.
And he grinned carelessly at this moment.
How dirty it is.
There are so many such sins in the days of hypocrisy, and no one has ever asked for forgiveness.
The sin that never asks for forgiveness, if not a greater sin, what is it?
The world is a garbage dump.
I write poetry in the garbage dump.
Perhaps living in poetry
will allow me to escape the sordid filth.
This is an escape, maybe.
Now I have nothing.
Only poetry.
"Now that night is coming,
will the candles still be lit?
I am here to pray that
everyone will not cry anymore,
to let you know
how much I love you.
In the hot summer afternoon, wait a long time.
That old path was like the face of a father, and the
lonely wildflowers disappeared quietly. "
They said that they can settle this matter with a sum of money.
Settle the school, the media, and your mother.
They even held a celebration party. What are they
celebrating ? The celebration has escaped punishment? Can
they escape the punishment of their hearts?
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 only I wanted to say sorry.
But in this way, I finally couldn’t speak.
So I went to the place where you
threw it into the river . The wind blew my hat up and floated, falling into the river
so white, so light, and uncertain with the wind.
Just like your young life.
Since I can't say an apology.
What can I do to torture and cleanse myself?
Only silence.
Only poetry.
"I have loved so deeply,
whenever I hear your weak singing ,
My heart throbbed.
I pray for you
and
take the last breath of my soul before I cross the dark river .
I began to dream about
a sunny morning.
I woke up again
,
my eyes stung by the sun, I met you, and
you stood by my side. "
But I don't know how to write poems.
I tried my best to write a poem.
Only a few scattered and pale words were painted on the notebook.
When I was young, the teacher said to me
Miko, will you become a poet when you grow up?
How old was I then? 9 years old, still 10 years old.
I am 66 years old now.
What have I done in the past fifty years?
I did not become a poet.
Can't even write a poem.
So I asked everyone who talked with me
how to write a poem?
The poet said that
everyone has a poem in his heart.
Spread its wings and it will fly out of my heart.
What is it bound by?
I tried my best to untie it and let it fly
fly to the other side of the world, you fly
better, now is the time to say goodbye.
I leave this poem for you.
"Song of Narcissus"
Do you know who Narcissus is?
He was also a man who committed suicide.
Some people say that he died of narcissism.
No, he died in the desolation of the world.
He died of his beauty and cannot be shared with anyone.
Beauty is a hot breakfast in the morning.
Beauty is that an aging woman like me is still wearing a gorgeous dress.
Beauty is the pure eyes when you look back at your house before committing suicide.
We all know the most beautiful time.
And the hourglass of memory and life is about to bottom out.
What can reverse it?
Reverse evil and ugliness, sin and pain?
What takes us to the afterlife?
Only love.
Only poetry.
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