June 17, 2006
-
Let me be a butterfly,
if I am a piece of rough paper.
Let my heart be hard,
if I am a empty can.
Being wasted and buried by you,
I let you be satified, and myself be dismantled.
For you, the beauty in ruins blossoms.
Let me be a piece of litter,
lingering in you home.
In happiness my wound recovers.
Love is a piece of rubbish:
even though the remains rot,
ultimately, nourished by its nutrients,
the garden will be full of flowers.
Being abandoned
is not that frightening;
liking you, sometimes,
is more fearsome.
That I can’t miss you anymore
is nothing comparable to
being burnt in your hands.
There is no need to run for the terrifying perfection,
seeing that if we are overwhelmed with happiness,
we will not know how to deal with it.
Then why don’t us be cruel to ourselves?
In ashes, I am utterly digested.
From now on,
nothing can worry me,
for I have no worries anymore.
Rubbish
