The moon scrambles on the fragrance of the trees
I think of humility and grace.
Think of the secret of death,
honey of life and survive
by holding the poems.
I will ask myself not to invent
the echo of tomorrow.
In my aloneness
I watch the dancing of words,
the white tract of thoughts without thinking.
There are no holes in heart,
still the numbers build the nest.
The abstract arguments of depression.
Lull before the explosive creation.
Movement of grief is footfall in dark night.
We always blamed the self image
without perfecting our contents.
Liberating self from bare hands was the theme.
We could bring the screaming moon to rest upon our souls.
