Poetry

Do you know my
love, where the road ends
I will meet you
one day.

Life had been always angry
with me. Sometimes I would
sit quietly, doing nothing, and
looking at the hanging―
earlobes of Buddha.

Cannot hone my thoughts,
how to stop the violence.
The Sunday moon―
cracks open like a cotton flower.

The vandals,
I am done with. The headstones
separate the faiths. It was
a punishment.

O bronzed man, don't
hide the gold.