Rise up between the shades of days
which faded just like the sun that rises and sets.
When the lanes were all looking
like the sticks in a matchbox,
I was the one who was always in thought
of becoming the world outside.
And where am I now—
wrapped around loosely with the matchsticks,
waiting for my turn to be touched and burned,
only to be left a ruin too soon.
Not even anybody thinks about
or cherishes the flame
for which the matchstick is destined.
A life too soon to be gone,
never remembered for a thing,
when there are always so many more in the sea.
Who cares for the one
who did the exceptional job
of lighting a candle?