I am afraid of writing poorly, as if my entire life
        was transferred here 
to be invisible underneath poorly lettered ideas, 


        As if all I had was this as clothes
                       and a cheap wristwatch of a rhyme

        As if all there was is the things I'd leave behind.

        Wouldn't I leave you the most?

                      Isn't that my fear, of giving you here
                                                 poorly lettered
                                                 as a cheap memento?

          But out of fear I write more innocently,

                                            I paint you with garish colors
                                                             so as to give you rainbow-hues
                                                                                 sweet enough for tears
       
Secretly what I wish for is just a photograph
   the kind of a black and white piece
which never gives more ideas about color;

                           We do not need colors if we do truth,
                           if we plainly appreciate the sensation of holding
                           this moment like a thing within a canvas,

                           four walls within which there are only blank spaces
                           for the eyes to encase it's own.

So I wish for these letters to be nightly water
                as the moon gives out it's thoughts,

                I wish to sleep on my own deeper underneath.                                       

I wish for these letters to be   me as you remembered me
     standing at the wide open lacuna
with a fishing rod and a smile fading into a
     happiness ...

You remember, happiness always appears the closer we get
                            to the image,

                            the pieces on the surface of the person,

                            For you,
                            he is yet climbing the inexhaustible of her smile