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(5-6-1935)

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WRENCHING

The crisis starts boiling
about the invisible foes.
The contraptions hope to recapture
the moods.

Harsh, arrogant and ritualistic.
In the stark nudity of silence
a wooden Buddha lies on the
floor crying.

“ I am not happy, I am not happy.
Why were you still a virgin? ”
White butterflies will not sit
on jasmines to lose their script.

There was a black moon to chase
the fugitive. There will be no midnight
sun. Between lips and cups
the grey fox had lighted a lamp.

Submitted: Wednesday, April 24, 2013
Edited: Wednesday, September 25, 2013


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