i always made friends with the minds of those who donot write poetry-
beneath the sky, when time alone was our profit,
in all our dealings, we pretended love.
only i, alone, dreamt that books that are not written will become poems-
wherever i went, my colors tinged with sorrow,
it became a blue color i did not even know.

my eyes were tender,
for me to see, this world was a million cities.
suprises were many too-
and i kept looking at everything,
so cruelly.

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