Would wolves bark if i loomed out the red moon?
Insects hide in this dull and dark prairie quiescent.
Soldiers buried infernal, lilacs wander around the mountain.
Was the silhouette my father's cross aloft?
The nightmare of departures extend to your next life.
I was once self-flagellated to behave abstinent.
My father's shadow is shrouded over my silver ocean.
His early-died joys drifting here alone.
My cornsilk-colred star projecting her tender spotlight for me.
I stroll into clumps of wood clear and open.
Mysteries of my trail utterly shine.
YOU ARE READING
The monsoon literature
PoesiaOur self is always so distant a leap from the surroundings. Literature is the medium of the minority to revolt, to state existence.
