The sheathing of this bulb
has broken, filled with scratches
Although it still shines bright

Hub of its joy: serving me

It has seen all of my doodles
but gave away nothing

My infant poems often think
that its light is their mother

My sweat, my tears, my nightmares
are its insignia, its tatoo

It imputes its capability
of breathing to me
but I am the apprentice here