i pick up flowers from the pages of the calendar
and scatter them on the picture-frame
of my dwelling place
sometimes the spring comes
sometimes the buddhist monastery
along the pitch road of the city
thousand counts of uproars
the mess-building that is situated
on the top of the coconut-tree
has also joined the march-past
and who miss the last train
i offer them glasses of tea
as an anti-war campaigning
the plastic-made afternoons
hoist the flag of nail-polish
as there is no water-bottle
around your neck
the assembly of choosing
one’s bridegroom oneself
has rejected you