My words are eyes
Stinging with scraps of separation.
In the middle of the night ,
They wake and weep for passed friends.
I shiever in the cold,can’t sleep
Give me your warmth mother
Bring my troubled heart to ease.
Upon strips of moonlight
I lie half dead, soaked in woe
But the pain does not recede.
I cultivate my verses
With warm sighs
Yet they turn on me savagely.
My youth betrays me
who can restore the faith?
The life but, tell me to moan for the broken trust.
Mother, please teach me
To grapple my lips when I weep,
Or the world will hear me cry.
Tell my heart to swallow the bitterness
I am fated to mourn.
I must not call out my muse
inside the cowardice of my words
because I fear that when I am gone
this vicious world,
will say that my poems were immoral.