Behind the curtains
of death distance and desire...

Sometimes poetry bursts~~~~~~~Very often bubbles...
the bubbles of silence,~~~~~~~~~in the silence of...

It is not about the lines
it is about the capacity of silence...

The bosoms of swollen meadows
drizzles...

Pure intents are free
From any uncertainty...

Tracing a wrinkle
I ended at far beyond...

The black man Jazzes
Inferno tangoes my soul...

And this is me:
the Prometheus of poetry...

The entire world
is whitened from within...

Buzz!
This was...

Love brings every side of wounds together
and sew through them with pang...

When would this vagabondage end?
Where, my friend...