In This Age


Why do I part with
my grief, my poems?

All night I was awake
to know what went wrong?

I extend my empty hand―
so that you can draw my fate.

You have the beautiful gazelle
eyes. Why they always look beyond me?

The salt comes again in
my verses. No sweetened lies.

The truth was too hot to be punched
on my hand. It has made a bleeding hole.

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In This Age