Tigress from the east

An answer for a mad woman and cats

To where the god inhabits, the beggar knows the richest answer

At the street corner, where passing words of crowds sing to a single moment.

Caring for a song? I only know the movement of my own, at midnight or the first morning

Dews.

Shrieking as if my quilt is wiping my petals, in a flood of my womanhood.

Dancing a tangle but forgetting my room has been proclaimed, head to toe and the first

Moan,

From new trees to a sigh of my chimney. I shall not smile for when lips are weapons of my irony,

And I shall not slaughter, for when my pen's chuckles brushing over an alert and set paper on Fire. Fire...

Fire! This woman is a maniac, she ignites her own attic in her own pen, in such insane hands!

Hymning in her scream, vista of so many small nights flee by their frosted past.

But I was just writing, with tailored friction in my own parlors where the view of same ashes ascends,

Kissing my own bedroom of a girl's greenish days but never hears jingling laughs- they were never wrapped by a pair of fairy, fresh lungs,

Or descended onto my grown-up dining table. Scent of my dried ink underneath paper grave,

Are ashes of a criminal's torch,

Bursts into hands of an unscathed soul, and writes: Jail her,

She just caused another fire alert.

I swipe my eyes in a way a beggar weeps, his eyes are beneath his pawing bushes

Where thousands of foreign polemics groan. There is a crow flutter into an unknown face,

A cat on her two, human feet. We look into each other's eyes, face in wet, drenched,

Tears are stars impersonate countless hands, but they look so bright and they brush,

Over obsidian eyes uncovered with touch of puppet under daylights.

Beware of the cat, furs of the beggar hair are nonhumans' and they swirl vibrantly,

Horning downwards-

Where our heads are the lovers of the songs in grasses. The lens to lens between us,

Is a realm of darkness, and an airiness -

We own all winds and water in our own will.