It's dusk now, inside with a flair

of flat silence, between the house

and white valley, there's the orange

clouds, twinkling in twenty bucks.

Cross on the street first,

On a lantern night for angst,

When the world's blown,

it was gone!

And there's he with the walls,

surrounded with tree whistles,

someday he stomped, stamped

on the ground, beneath where

it takes a burden.

He's like a coasting child,

wishing for the icy crust,

to freeze the outburst.

The last light of the coast dies,

in the west coast, in the empty street,

in the empty spaces, there you can fill

more, he muses for another song.

Memories are like button coats,

one by one, it falls down while—

he tries hard to stitch back everything.

So he comes back again and again,

in the woods, for something/ birdsong

a shared hope, "We'll travel back

to the south."

A thousand trees,

A thousand dollars,

A thousand moments,

A thousand years ago,

Everything is shown in nature's disoriented form.

In another winter, he hopes for the night

to be gone, a homecoming call in the foresight.

— 21st June, 2024.