I wrote the life on a piece of paper,
my whole life: a paper castle.
I thought it could be a letter, I thought.
I thought that by saying it,
by telling it to someone,
writing it to someone,
then...
someone would read it.
I thought: someone who reads it
could understand the Meaning:
the meaning of my living,
the sign of my wandering.
So I wrote it,
on a piece of paper:
a life on a piece of paper.
“These are just words” you thought,
words thrown in the wind.
So my life, that piece of paper,
had to find a meaning,
at last it learnt flying.