Striking a matchstick gently
On the surface of the matchbook
For warming up the winter
Underneath the wetted wooden log
As leftover after burnt
Wetted sulfur
Damp surface of the matchbook
Not yielded even the short lighting
As in the stormy sky
By striking winds each other
Only the empty stick left
After a smell of burnt sulfur
I stifle a yawn
By opening my pages
Of my bygone days
If something leftover
For pure satisfaction in my mind
