Humanity is repeatedly mocked
The door cannot be opened
The endlessly squandered desires
are locked firmly in the door
while the skin is making a show outside the door
A deer finds a way out
The sword of moonlight points to Ganges
The forest is revenged by staggering hard liquor
A serious illness recovers in a gust of wind
The remaining are tears
anointing the moon bay with a thin layer of wax
Deep in the river
the days of yore swim like shadows of fish
Overdrawing tomorrow has become a habit
The season stepping on the stairs
never worries about the excessive consumption
The village of bat has black hairs on head
The tree outside the window reclines like a broom
You are watching a scene of silent film
But the expected characters in that play
has yet come on the stage
The phone rings
but no one picks it up
From a place far, far away
wafts the whisper of wheat-pile in the countryside