the pencil is a mongol
which for the past had served you well
and if it were your soldier
you could have decorated it like hell.
now its head is cut and needs well
the desired sharpening but what's the use?
you discard it, you don't have use for it
anymore.
you quit what you love. No, not the mongol.
it is this writing, stupid.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem