Waiting for a chaste bread,
whole life under the moon,
to speak off the inconsistency of happiness,
with a monologue of a needle in eyes
for a madness of sublime verse.
Canoeing in a frozen lake
for a stranded rose,
you stop at a bosky bank.
A weeping willow greets the lost son.
A school bag measures
the knowledge of surrounding hills,
who had plucked out the stars from the sky.
