…thus riding on a memory-bicycle those people who used to go to pick up dry straws, grasses, twigs from the daily-wage of the squirrels  are neither the husband of any wood nor the wife of any wood-apple … at the best they may be one page full of must-dos regarding keep-fit practice of one’s health…

around the grazing field of the night-gowns
in course of a long-journey by train one has to cross
so many grass-hopper-points

one-piece of life is this

in its daily hopping to pick up the pebbles of
which is the amplification of what
the bodies of all prose and poems are touched with
by the sunshine… by the wind… by the rain…by the water

it-may-be-for-you afternoon
is running

running
is the people after the office-break

running are the broken people

the sullen public
due to late-running of train

before the darkness sets in
on bare branches of the tree
clusters of crows
are running

forward steps of the return-home people
are running

many invitations has been remained
unattended … accumulating…

accumulating…
so much anger… many secret pains… tears…

the life is running
in the  rows of the flying birds

the life is running
in the meat-houses…
in the shopping-malls…
in the churches…
in the wheat-fields…

running … running … running…

salad poetry and salsa-dance
are also running…

in the letters of the alphabet…
in the swarm of mosquitoes…

from William Shakespeare
to Rabindranath Thakur

the sky is running …
the air…
the sunlight…