May be this way
A man succumbs to silence
Streets
Empty of homes and shrines
In apathy, with bowed head
Passes through scattered objects
In the gathering gloom
His face remains unidentified
Never did he exist
In memories
A life, damp and decayed
Like worn leather, untouched
Prospects to choose
Found helplessness
He may be there
In flowing crowds
Like a feeble shadow at the door
Neither the maid, nor a visitor
Falling twilight
Fallen leaves
Night
Like a dying lamp
Oh! the heartbeats
Change with seasons!
Daybreak
Pool of lunacy
Hot breath
Spreads over greens
Flowers pop out from snow
Froth
Filling swamps
For the days of love
An infinite plane
For touches
A grave where marigolds fall
May be this way
A man succumbs to silence.
