My friend picks me up at the corner coffee shop.Through the silent night, we drive away to escape this coming season.
For this monsoon season, the crows of all sides fly to our hometown. They reprobate and murder our blue sky.
My friend and I drive away to the nomadland. We are another body of each other. We both are from the valley stream.
Our bone is made of cobblestones. We constitute the gentle kiss of each other.
For the whole city street, our life is too feeble to bear any vigor.
My friend and I are driving far away. We seek the unceasing cold flow.
YOU ARE READING
The monsoon literature
PoésieOur self is always so distant a leap from the surroundings. Literature is the medium of the minority to revolt, to state existence.
