Killing field
was still red!
What you were
searching in moonlight?
A small poem
cannot provide balm
for troubled mind.
Moon will come
every night to find
his paramour.
Words keep on
changing the sounds.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
The moon does not care for the painters eye, it will flex with or without poets or killers. Life drifts on, best to float with it. Another thoughtful and meditative work.