I dream of being in a crib of silk thread,
Where what’s projected is always the same kinematograph.
Stroking your unruly hair,
You set your intelligent eyes flying about a low sky, as if to mock me.
Unhurriedly,
A stain spreads in a spotted pattern,
Which the likes of alcohol can’t even wash away more than the clear, topmost layer.
If only the impure sentiment left behind,
Could become a typical kind of love…
Quite the unreal synopsis for us,
Being so full of delicate emotions.
The sigh stuck in the back of your lungs,
Can’t even comprehend the names of colors.
Pierce through me with those pure pins,
Upon this cold, heavy glass case.
I’m sure that will be a place,
Closer to you than anyone else;
And if even scales will eventually shed,
I’m sure that will be an ideal form –
Ahh, if only this could be,
A typical kind of love…
Quite the unreal synopsis for us,
Being so full of delicate emotions.