At times from the dark of a sleeping night,
With the wind on the leaves gently stalking
We let our poems think like breeze coming
From nowhere, let trees shuffle and dance
On words sounding like the music of trees,
In soft lyrics with the unique dissonances.
We rein in form,our composition of sound,
By a parallel conscious swelling with words
Words that quarrel with inward symmetry,
Those that turn away from a lyrical beauty
Words that shuffle like a wind passing trees
Only to return to the old transience theme.