The waking lips
in sleep, break the
vow of silence.

You join a stream
of conscience, while giving
back was not enough.

As if the musk deer
searches for his own scent
in bone color dreams.

You try to forget―
the arriving of snow, looking
at the trail of blood
on the grass.

The hunter will not wait,
for forgiveness from sky,
at unwincing pain of inward journey.