When spritual air holds me,
my still heart opens, you bloom like a flower.

You're as fragile and beautiful as a flower,
sensitive as a nerve cell, delicate as a vein.

When you disappear, stuffy air suffocates me
as if I am standing on a sticky air
above newly-built asphalt road.

Then I exhale that lungful of sticky air.
I exhale, exhale and I spit it out.

Then I silently close my eyes.