Words blow
with the blast
Ink drops as oil to the flame
and burn the fire's light

Waved in the leaden air  
the majesty of accuracy
scald the ears waxed with injustice
Literacy and liberty
are for all longing eyes

A witness to the silences—
to misfortunes ignored
to blessings need to be heard
to weak breath
trying to make sense of its existence-

the sonar in the deepest sea of truth
hears silences louder than speeches
Also, he believes in voices
voices stronger than power

Ripened by night
the profound sea,
as a huge archaic mirror
embracing a pasture for reflected star

Beneath the stage of luminous enthusiasm,
wavelessly rising your meditation,
which unrequitedly falling in love
with the moonbeam

Withering somber luna,
as the faint Cupid
shooting an arrow of ice
into an auroral mirage
with shining rosiness

Ought to feel out eternity
the lily wings, finally
turned out to be the feeble oar
knocking the ebb rootlessly

Affection
inexhaustible braveness and endless scrupulousness
But what are these amongst us? -
The tacit contract
between sunrise and seaside;
also the blurry distance
between darkness and dreamland

Considering the tomatoes
Sunshine turns the grapes to wine
We have 27 tomatoes standing in a line
Waiting to be burnt and blushing to the sun

But too much sunshine makes me taste too sweet
But if I jump now I will lose my green feet
You have got to be mature enough to be squeezed
To juicy sour and loosely sweet

For I am a tomato,
*A tomato thinking about life

Bathed in sunshine,
thy tint,
so polychrome, so fragile,
rode on the wind.
No perpetual apex,
only the awing moment.

Holding just a slender assurance,
you explore the ends of heavens;
yet only a trace of lingering,
exceeds the lifetime liberties.

The uneven sentimental of adolescence,
as the spring leaf
with tender sawtooth;
Will you please,
let poetry take place of numbers
to reckon our memories?

When sunset bestows
that rearward glance
with golden sight;
melting my eyes
is the reflux
of our youth.

the distant eaves
irritate the groundline;
which becomes a hilly horizon
in twilight

A glance of warm colors:
is it the glory of dawn
or an afterlight?

Who knows, and no real difference;
the moonbeam will eventually
bring peace, along with loneliness
to drifting lives.

The mother tongue has reduces to silence
and the hometown as remote as paradise.
I am here, hair in wind
tells the destination of clouds.

I believe in freedom, in any variety;
as many as the ways of being nothing,
tenderly.