i wash my hands in cold water
the nerve shakes like leaves of trees
my heart is brewing a weary cloud
it is like Latin culture
too senile
Beethoven is annihilating death
his hands touched the nature of life
i know
only create is joy
to despise the freewheeling shadow of death
the sadness cleared out my heart
dug up the root cause of the poet's illness
poor devils are greedy for enjoyment
Beethoven is deaf
cannot hear Tolstoy's gospel
i know clearly storm is coming soon
so hide in opium den
a pregnant woman's abundant life-force
is rugged
a thunderbolt shook me tottered
a poet's new destiny finally was born
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