The harsh winter swells my fingersbut they cannot rest – I need them.
 
Like piglets in a muddy sty

they are covered in smudged ink.
 
All the lingering thoughts in my mind

must be released into the wild.
 
Water running from the tap,

rub and rinse the dirt away.
 
Ink on papers, papers into books,

it seems like only I am the one hooked.
 
On the shelf these books lay

gathering dust each day
 
Like stars that burn bright

but hidden by dense clouds.
 
With open gates, the piglets stayed in the sty

the world did not have open arms