I who have always found ways to escape,
skilled at filling gaps and stitching...

Now that the storm has settled,
I walk back along the trail...

Something in your words stands out,
whether pushed into low punctuation...

As I learned the taste of warmth again
you come out of sudden striking like lightening...

You shall never see yourself between the lines,
or your silhouette against my poetry...

A cold shoulder and impassive face.
You were in some dry northern town...

...About the humid weather
and the foggy mountain...

When a long novel
is signed in misfortune...

Dried,
and crushed into rage...

True, writing poems
doesn't mean I'm a poet...

I can see the black forest
deep-rooted inside you...

Roses in your stiff hands
melt my heart...