Sometimes you wonder,
Is this really what I am meant to do...

There's no quietude
everywhere I turn to...

At the Shore . . .
There was a wave, a tiny wave...

My sadness is just like water
it evaporates but then it condensates...

I'm troubled.
there's too much chaos...

How lovely are the days when flowers bloom
but also when the rain comes dripping down...

Outside the rustic porch,
near the stairs that bloom with magnolias...

At the bottom
of the button of a rose...

This sadness is the kind of sadness
found at the streets in my dreams - the type...

To feel is to sleep in streets
with newspapers up to necks...

It's true so many flowers bloom with water,
but you do not - you bloom with love, my love...

Should I compose a sonnet just for you?
You are a judge who's tired of reading them...