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