Sitting on the foothill
The tiny bird lost its vowel
In the debris tumbling down,
Sings in my ear the low
Sound ringing inside the conch shell,
The Mother Earth looses her arms
In the saw blade
Drawn in the sharp edged clouds.
The trees so tall
Dark Night fails to show her silver teeth.
All those stars melt in the sky, above, The moon warns in turn,
I can not erase my sin either.