The tomorrow premonition is haunting me like a maple rain.
Loitering along the black river, when could my eternal sun shine?
Trembling the gnarled trees, winters are never gone.
They echo through your bone.
Chasing the heretical shadow, my existence is far away from home.
Neither thisness nor nowness, where the wind whistles from?
My fecund sins, mixed with pathos, shimmer like golden sands.
Wading through the war powders, they hum a peace song.
The winter is never gone.
YOU ARE READING
The monsoon literature
PoesíaOur self is always so distant a leap from the surroundings. Literature is the medium of the minority to revolt, to state existence.
