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