all fleeting

moon stretched its hands
to revere my being
or as a call for departure,
mine own.

and I hear calls
calling me to listen the cave’s call
for time is delayed before it reaches here.

two sculptures pressing on both sides
get erected on the side of a river that never had a good news to give
but it always brought omens,
prophecies I dare call my own–
my very own dreams.

the gardener comes and wakes me up,
“I watered the park last day,
forget what in front of your eyelids you see.
you’ll catch a cold,

you don’t belong here.”


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