Ripe Poetry

On my tree,

there are a lot of incomplete poetry

Feeling and words give them water,

and gradually they grow on the tree

But ripe poetry can't be picked by anyone

So, what they can do is only to wait for

rotting and falling onto my ground

Rotten poetry covers the bottom of me,

emits despair,

and they are swallowed by hazy night

Then,

I start to write new ripe poetry

Unless the tree dies,

I can grow poetry again and again