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.

Probably, originally,

somewhere in America,

the cotton smiled brightly at the sun and the warm breath with its flower.