The girl wrote poems. On book covers, in notebook folds she tucked away scraps of poetry.
Some poems written on napkins and tissues, some poems written on paper bags, the rest on torn scraps of paper.
I was then a soldier at war with himself. Not tired, not unburdened either... Just at such a time I met that girl, who had the urge to write poems but no need to keep them tidy.
At first meeting her first words were: Show me your heart.
In reply I said, I don't have one—it's lost!
: Does that really happen!
: Warriors have no hearts, they only have dreams.
: Warriors have no hearts, they only have dreams.
: Where do their hearts go then?
: Why, into your pens!
I watched as the girl, hearing my words, grew urgently busy rummaging through book folds and notebook creases for the first time in her life gathering up her creations.
I decided I would spend the rest of my life with her.