I celebrate not,
the death of my poems.
I will resuscitate to speak
lispingly, at the funeral
of chaste truth.

And the fake news
will fill the
deep pocket of rich to
kill the unborn oaths.

The spring will never
be the same.

Interviewing once
the god of small notches,
you find that there was
some mystery.

The river cries
when meets the salt.
I wanted to honor the ice
sitting on the lips
of moon.