That scene of outside the window from inside the window ,,
Is like me,,
The widow,
Of whose I can’t know,
Not because I can’t find him,
But because I’ve learnt to look for him,
From the social and biological laws and windows,
How do I know,,
That to show,
The inner blow,
Of mist and smoky snow,
The itching of reaction among,
Which don’t know themselves but long,
For not soothing but for dying,
The chemicals underlying,
Inside the body-mind craving,
Constantly even if appear non-clinging,
They keep insidiously longing,
Licking ******* lying,,
How this singing,
Belongs to me?
That scene of outside of the window
From inside the window
With Me among the widow,
Clinging to my own shadow,
Is anything without the window?
The outside and inside too,
Are anything except the window,
Is even the window the same window,
For itself the window?
Or these three ,
Me ,inside- outside and window,
Are the one another side of the same window,
Above and below,
To each other,,
Having the scene of outside and inside with me in between and relative to the window