It is like liberation, sometimes a lock on the shelf , who is this who is holy to me along with me?
Sometimes there is a hatred of homesickness and homelessness, sometimes it is like worrying about who is this who is this who is holy to me like sleeping in the morning like crying like the
smell of the forest A lover of a flower is a bright agate as if this is my own self Who is this who is holy to me with my soul?
The pulse of the acacia flower is sometimes a lie, who is this who is this who is sacred to me along with me?
Like the fear of an escape in a dream, like a smile on a picture in the frame, who is this who is this who is holy to me in the same breath as me, it becomes bad for me
, it stays like a scarecrow, it scares me of being finished
, like the thought of a trip, the moment of arrival, everyone is full of gone, jumping, who is this who is holy to me with my soul?
