On my tree,
there are a lot of incomplete poetry
Feeling and words give them water,
and gradually they grow on the tree
But ripe poetry can't be picked by anyone
So, what they can do is only to wait for
rotting and falling onto my ground
Rotten poetry covers the bottom of me,
emits despair,
and they are swallowed by hazy night
Then,
I start to write new ripe poetry
Unless the tree dies,
I can grow poetry again and again
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