the distant eaves
irritate the groundline;
which becomes a hilly horizon
in *twilight*
 
A glance of warm colors:
is it the glory of dawn
or an afterlight?

Who knows, and no real difference;
the moonbeam will eventually
bring peace, along with loneliness
to drifting lives.
 
The mother tongue has reduces to silence
and the hometown as remote as paradise.
I am here, hair in wind
tells the destination of clouds.

I believe in **freedom**, in any variety;
as many as the ways of being nothing,
tenderly.