The price of something, precise and clear,
To know the price of an object, matter, or our failure.
Of a powerless state of mind,
Or the ice cream we eat.

A boy sells flowers picked from graves at the market gate.
A black heart.
It will rain, and petals will fall from the flowers.
His warm tears will blend with the cold rain.
Who has time
For misfortune

A pop poet sold four hundred books by pre-order,
banal and useless illusions.
But if you want to make money,
perhaps it’s not so bad to become ******,
and write only overused phrases.

I’m simply worried about the cruelty of nature,
Or perhaps about the carelessness of humans...
The fires,
The scorched homes,
The injured people.
Could I write about birds and animals at a time like this?
I don’t think so, because they too die,
They too turn to ash.
A single city can be entirely consumed by fire,
And our efforts prove meaningless.

Woman: Tell me, how can I surprise you?

Man: Send me a picture where your long hair is flowing over your shoulders, and your chest is visible.

Woman: You've never had such desires before.

Man: You've awakened something new in me. I just want to touch you.

Woman: There's a great distance between us.

Man: I believe in love online.

Woman: I understand.

Man: I'll definitely come to you, see you. I want us to have fun in a hotel, drink, and have ***.

Woman: That sounds very good, but I'd like us to meet in a year, during winter, in freezing, cold weather.

They never met. What's more, they ended up arguing.

Edgar Allan Poe's raven,
A devourer of carrion,
The raven of the underworld,
Gustave Doré's ravens...
A black raven perches on manganese.

An eternal value,
Dignity,
Or the pain caused by its violation
A cynical pain.
But let us mock it,
For is the pain that seeks to dominate us
Not deserving to be base,
Brought low by our lyrical ridicule?