Poetry

The crisis starts boiling 
about the invisible foes. 
The contraptions hope to recapture 
the moods. 
 
Harsh, arrogant and ritualistic. 
In the stark nudity of silence 
a wooden Buddha lies on the 
floor crying. 
 
“ I am not happy, I am not happy. 
Why were you still a virgin? ” 
White butterflies will not sit 
on jasmines to lose their script. 
 
There was a black moon to chase 
the fugitive. There will be no midnight 
sun. Between lips and cups 
the grey fox had lighted a lamp.