The yellow jasmines
are dead. My ache returns.

My language does't
speak. My agony will describe
the authentic death.

It is a long prose.
One eye sticks out from
the socket to read clearly.

The see-through veil
leaks the story, which can't
be taken to the beautiful
end.

First you grill the
moon, then ask for the
slanted answer. Love takes
off the makeup.

How long the poems
will cry?