night (Poetry)
The mysterious, pulsed timid of the night,
l penetrating the dagger,
Call for the peacock,
Shipping the air,
Shocking small dew points
Sorrowful sorrow crosses,
In my memory-gag, a face suddenly ripped the darkness depressed.
light slept in the pupils of the eyes,
But the gesture of pain is around
one moment,
The mystery of the night is pulsed,
then the pains
Covering and spreading,
Like a formless consciousness
The least experience-wave injury of life absorbs,
And as if the site of injury,
Consolation of any special grant of giving,
One small star split from the night's fog
But in the end of my memory, in the sky
Has stopped, frozen, that stable-stagnant face depressed,
Sleep in the eyes,
My consciousness is flushed with this thinking,
Not hurt, that is my life's pleasure,
I should always see that image, the image, the light-heartedness,
You are a star grown by my life-soul distinction
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