In Prison
From looking up into the sky
and crying a lot because of hopes
the sky-blue has entered/gone
into my eyes.
From growing corn in the fields
and crying a lot because of sadness
the yellow has entered/gone
into my eyes.
Leave officers go to the wars
Lovers to go to the gardens
And teachers to their classrooms,
Or me, give me prayer beads
And an old chair, of the past
So that I would be like this in the world:
a doorkeeper
at the gate of inner pain
while books, laws and all the religions
guarantee me death
if I am hungry or in prison.