The most wanted moon
was writhing in black sky,
after a star fell for a pebble.
The nymph had become a golden nugget in east.
Sun was rising...
Guilt of burning the sea
was writ large
on the face of purple clouds.
I am collecting the garments of dew.
Sitting in a night of waves,
watching the theater going in flames.
That day a cuckoo did not sing.
