While the Winter is Knocking on the Door

The sky has sunken
as if it steps on the ground.
On a twig as skinny as young girls’ leg;
its tree has thrown off
the Summer and Autumn,
a pudgy nameless bird,
hiding behind the color of the tree and the sky
with the deep silence like a tree,
is squatting like the sunken sky.
What is in the bird’s small head?
Is this my fault that the bird looks lonely?
If a she-bird that embraces the fall sky,
the summer tree and the spring forsythia,
lands by the he-bird,
It wouldn’t have to open the door for the winter

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