Am I the Poet that I used to be,
  or the Poet of tomorrow

Am I the Poet of this present moment,
  to own or then to borrow

Am I the Poet that I used to be,
  or the one I will become

Are my words fresh made or from seasons past,
—my spirit zero-sum

(Villanova Pennsylvania: November, 2016)

Somewhere, some place a century ago,
Long before my own generation's birth
There walked a girl who still many do know
In the meadows and cities on this earth.
Like us she felt the same breath of the dawn,
Has seen the same sun, moon and gleaming star,
And many things she had pondered upon,
Which makes our similarities not far.
And when I'm pondering upon our past,
Melancholy and Happy are merging,
And I do realize that things have gone fast,
Who offer a time for contemplating.
  Despite the past is gone, I still adore
  The small beauties that had took place before.

I do not believe in death
But there is something called
Not being alive
So I beg you
Don't forget me

True love is a bonfire
wood plus fire makes smoke
Wood is the physical
Fire is the mental
Smoke is the spiritual
You cannot have smoke
before the wood and fire
And when wood or fire
become exhausted
the smoke drifts away