Poetry

Holding the thought before it 
is born. Let the void become 
pregenant first- 
and it starts raining. 
 
It was a serene melting 
point, when I accepted the price 
of giving away. I will not 
take any mantra, any hand. 
 
A perfect blending with 
unknown; to put back the 
sea in a bowl. Even the cloud 
will enter into a blade of grass. 
 
No faith. No ritual. I believe 
in roving dust, which makes 
the stars, the blaze, and 
the brilliant light.