A solemn moon

talking to hills,

plunged in pain of tainted love.

I steer quietly out

of this queasiness, did't want

to accept the risqué.

A spider was climbing

on a wall to weave

a sticky web for a baby face.

Like an aspen leaf

you tremble in even a slight

breeze of a beautiful thought.

The garden lizard

changes the color. Who was responsible

for the ruins of temples

and mosques?

Let me talk to the god, the god

standing at my door

engaging the harvest moon.