Content Advisory
This poem depicts suicide and grief.
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I've touched the warm snowflakes
falling on my fingertips,
blooming into brief, fragile flowers.
I've touched the cold sunlight
falling into my eyes,
turning into threads that pull me forward.
Among the grass and trees, stubborn seeds sink and wait.
That sun, so distant from me,
still melts what I thought would stay.
It carries off my sleepless words—
who still believes in fairy tales
whose endings arrive on time?
Tall buildings come down,
crushing the snail that has just set out.
People's bodies rise again,
carrying a star that keeps receding.
Brave human, to resist, leap from the tall buildings.
Some grieve.
No mourning.
Even those who loved them don't understand
how they could rot.
Because they grew up among the moisture.
Because they hoped the dreamland after death would be easier to reach.
No flowers bloom after the pen is laid down.
The white flags those people once held high
become white cloths draped over them.
