In the darkness,
all the inks in the world...

My poetry is not poetry really,
if poetry is doomed...

Was it always this way,
or just my oblivion was the sleigh...

Only fresh air is beloved.
She loves...

It's often harsh and
unmusical for we can't...

I am the fire!
Thus...

Now is the point that
the past and prospect fasten...

Straight like an arrow,
the vigor of my postures...

Safeguard your beauty,
not in the mask you wear...

A taint of red rose
illuminates...

It was very musical though it was soundless.
everything in garden...

We speak in wavelengths
only time can translate...