Whenever I enter the world of books
turned into poetry
I begin to question and answer
like a lover with innocent playfulness
the threads of love become entangled
and entangle me in stories
where the hero and heroine are sharpening the edge of a dagger
I get upset and pick up
a history book search for innocence
but find none in it!
They don't keep love stories
they keep blood-stained documents!
I heard some faint voices from them!
From the depths of deep caves
keep digging, don't repeat!
I walk hesitantly toward that pile
where I might find that book
that hasn't been conceived
by the mathematics of life
the science of the body
not wrapped in any philosophy
all the chemicals...
burdened with material pleasures
don't teach such lessons
I walk away from them
and grab hold of a few fluttering, moral pages then suddenly filled with breadth,
I stand up against those books that begin with my body and become the body itself...!
Handling countless stacks of books, the advisors and protectors of the books tell me that inside a cupboard tucked away in a corner listed at the end of the index
there are some books
that, after reading, Maybe
a deep study of an actress's character
will appeal to you
This is a sea of knowledge
maybe you will be saved
