When I return home on a rainy day,
a cloth wiper welcomes me at home,
"I am a cloth wiper for you," it seems to say,
when it didn't become a wipe cloth of its own will.
The cloth wiper, in fact, used to be a shirt,
until just a week ago,
as if it came into this world to kindly wrap me like a skin,
when it didn't become a shirt of its own will.
somewhere in America,
the cotton smiled brightly at the sun and the warm breath with its flower.