The depression,
in purple moon,
scattering black magic.

The eatery, I ask, why were
you hungry?
The singsong tea pot smiles.

The theme of mist
valley, incites the palazzo;
and the riots begin.

A dark silhouette, looms─
against the falling star,
I start picking up the debris.

On the fringe of
economic boom, I put my
hands in the wronged shirt.