Poetry
Is the axis

On which society moves

On her golden hair
A snow butterfly slides down;
My fingers stops it.

In arms of the clouds
The moon sleeps with eyes open;
Some glowworms twinkle.

Without poetry,

Society is an autumn tree

Without sorrows


Who would care of our tears?

The year
               In which
                               We lived together

Sharing
              our joys
                             and sorrows

Passed silently
                           Leaving us
                                               With its a new
Companion
                     Which we call
                                               THE NEW YEAR

Snowflakes

Fall
       At my window


I kiss
         My
              Beloveds