I often sit on the moon,
one, real as any afternoon,
a place, away from here,
in my beloved atmosphere

views come soon after,
some vague and quick,
some remind me...
corners of painting, yes that is it!
where nothing happens, it's like,
silent waiting, for one warm waving

but when sun hides behind my moon,
and shadow of my palm covers the earth,
there's days I wave the sign of peace,
flip the bird at ease, then are the days,
it's all just old rock n' roll ways

I sat by,
the railway station,
young people,
with pride flags,
and costumes,
had fun,
minding their own business

I thought:
it's beautiful
perhaps there's hope,
after all,
buried,
somewhere deep

then curtain came down,
for no reason known,
duo of drunks,
spoiled their fun,
yet hope seemed alive,
this time,
it was the bully,
who ran

short time after,
a man,
cigarette on his lips,
that somebody else,
had already smoked,
drank an ice-cube,
from plastic bubble tea cup,
that somebody else,
had already consumed

and I thought:
hope truly sleeps,
perhaps too deep

to bearers of suffering,

and their poems;

the sole witness they ever had

Love is a harbour,
Oh god, Amor!
Almost wrote another love poem...

Love is a Haven,
Oh goddess, Amen!
Well-nigh wrote another love poem

If a battle within,
you dare not win,
then don't