My little ***** moon,
why were you hiding―
when the vulture-poems had
an uncanny similarity with
raging road show?

The volatility would not exit.
It rises in flames to make
a ******* hole in the sky.
Sometimes I hate you,
sometimes I, love you,
my elusive, beautiful karma.

At night when I disappear
what poem you will read?
In fast-running stream, your
croaking will not be heard.
Try to begin a dance of democracy.