Criss- cross pattern, the rough texture
of life runs smooth, smiles and tears ,
joy and despair, running through the texture,
every hue is bright and dim, here and there,
turning back, I see a picture I like,
no, but something is disturbing, the fury red here and there.
I sit here, my eyes closed
fire of anger and shouting has never rewarded.
Fine, subtle beauty of the pattern got burned,
Every moment of fury, I regret
I regret all those fineness lost.
The darkened damages in my picture,
makes me think,
if that little space is preserved,
the space between thought and action,
to make it into fine colors, to deliver,
I sit here,