poetic fragments op.41

Letters with a green ink

I can’t recall

The colour of the mind in October.

During I smell
The north wind

Which sounds zelkova’s leaves,
The mind turns inside out for the moment
Like fallen leaves on a road.
And for the time,
The colour of the mind
Returns in that time.
Surely that time was.
It must be me

Sometime, somewhere…

It’s hard to indentify
The colour.
But it turns
In its fine colour.
It differs from anymore
Pain, anger and taste
But is “someday, somewhere.”
My writing with a green ink
Like Umberto Saba,
“Someday, somewhere”
Is not green.
It’s a nameless colour.
The colour makes me uneasy.