Premature death

The mind is not sitting
                      in the reading table,
What is written with pen?

How to make a filling,
                         nothing feels good.
Outside the moon light illuminated.

The clock is closed,
                    Just nine o'clock.
Trying to write in the book,
No rhythm,
           I do not know good or bad.

The end is in the middle of the night.
A feeling of contentment, 
                     peace and happiness.

After many days have passed,
I gave it,
To the Cultural Secretary in college.
I thought there would be my name
             in the college magazine.

The magazine was published
                              at the right time,
But where is my name?
I asked and answered,
"What was that 
               and what did you write? 
Rain poems... 
How do you keep them all nonsense?
       trying Bad Rubbish".

Oh, the ray is generous,
              destroyed by the rain.
Can be tried again later.