On the Chariot, Against the Chariot

Does poetry mean merely weaving words together?
Or does the weaving of words actually create poetry?

Does picking up brush and paint give birth to drawing?
Or does the homework notebook of sketching exist for brush and paint?

Are all those silk bangles made for the sake of two hands?
Or were the two hands themselves made to be worthy of bangles?

Does falling in love make the rain feel beautiful?
Or does loving the rain make you fall in love?

Is time mine?
Or am I myself time's claim?

Do flowers bloom for me?
Or did my eyes bloom only to witness the blooming of flowers?

Do we speak only for the sake of speaking?
Or do we speak for the sake of not speaking too?

Did I come to this earth to sing songs?
Or is this birth of mine so that songs may be born through me?

Does the heart feel good when evening descends?
Or do I want to spend the day's end thinking of evening, thinking of evening, to make my heart feel good?

Do you seem beautiful because you are beautiful?
Or have you become beautiful only since you began to seem beautiful to me?

Is my age increasing?
Or am I gradually heading toward death by reducing my age, reducing, reducing?