Where the night growing dense and darker—
Waking up from sleep, I stand: there;
Breaking grandpa’s childhood
A whole woodland appears
All those diction that were not mine—
A dead horse
The wailing of a cute lady fox
The eighth phase of the moon—
On the third alleyway, inside the silence
There lays— corpses of some devotee to a master;
Now, the sons of human, going to cast their votes…
At noon, peace-flowers would bloom on the trees of cracies
Leave a Reply