In The Sunlight
I hold a pair of scissors over my head and open and close the blades to cut off the air from its source. I lower the scissors to the ground and snap at the surface to punish it for its errors, such as grass, trees, flowers and fruits. I turn the scissors point towards myself and snap the blades open and shut at my nose, my eyes, my mouth, my ears. I have to be angry at my-self too who lives off earth and air.
Why is there hurt and sorrow? Scissors, cut them off from me. Scissors, whose fine steel gleams in the sunlight like a most joyful smile, why am I not like you, instead, since I must give pain? I do not want to feel it in others. I do not want to feel it in myself. I do not want to be man, cutting through grass and flesh in the sunlight.