The path that blows here from only the north wind of winter, a child walks like a blanket.

Fishy and bitter.
My poems are again subjected to insult.

Night God, that naked dad is a boy again and that naked mother is a girl again.

A day in hell spent wandering crumbled walls, apartments drilled with holes, schools with roofs flown away, and broken bridges. Meeting each other’s eyes, we in the wilderness, can we start a fire and sit around it?
A child’s shadow in the darkness is flapping in this world’s centre, trying to vanish.
In this moment, do we also need morals and creeds, treatises and conscience? Tomorrow will arrive brightly. Will there be any prayers left for humanity?
In the place where children’s souls sway, will there be any fruit left?

In that distant place, will poems continue to be written?