Facing the lines of an unworthy old poem,
I hesitate to discard it
Because it is one I cannot forget
Like the flame that I loved
When I wrote it.

After all,
My meager life like a weed,
A collection of old poems,
Can’t be discarded carelessly
And just managed to get by
Due to the living affectionate things
Like tiny bees
Depending on the flowers of an insignificant weed.

              From "The Stray Dogs"