he world is narrow
And a silence clings around the trees.
What the future shall be like
No one knows…………

Where shall I lay my hands with which I would like to write poetry?
How that child shall recognize her mother in pitch darkness?

We shall stand sober and decorated in a celebration of
White collared guys

But who,
Who shall suppress a scream that would blow out
from the deepest core of some one's heart
against the entirely false decorum……
and shall cross all limits of timid composer.