Book of the Sadness
Sadness moves slowly as if on a horseback
forward, forward, the rainy clouds are low
touching our foreheads.
We can’t fall asleep at the white night,
so we talk about colors of love—
mischievous swallows flying around us.
Be honest. And be even more honest at work.
Your simple life embraces subtleties.
Yes, the ocean is big, and lonely.
The earth will remember you and every particle of you.
Your thinning hand waves to the morning dew,
wishing the book will live one year longer than yourself.
Now I’ve circled the ocean one more time.
Are the white foams the ever-green gratitude of a flying bird?
The discourse is mingled with loud waves.