A love that I wish to write;
A letter that I wish to love,
To my future husband:
How often do you love me?
Underneath the minuscule green grasses,
Stories that are weaved as one that -
Binded by a red rope.
Again and again we, sometime you, do it.
Never I refuse nor say never
Damn! You still cut the rope.
Now, it's a letter I wish to burn
like a candle in a darkened room:
A dust inside an earthen urn,
Still air, immense, and loom.