◎ On the Lake (阅读4725次)|
It should be chilling on the lake
I can not see it, but to imagine
How chilling it could be.
The hailstones were in the lower sky
Flying, chaperones of the ferry crows.
Below was my small intestine
Which looked so much like a broken
The shadow was walking on the surface, its
Tiptoes seemed as wearing
Ice skates. The sharp
Blades were really sharp.
The wind was blowing, its
Old job. The trees are swinging
Their old-fashioned medicine soup
Without changing prescription.
I stood by the lake, my hairs
Disheveled, so did my cloak
I looked up, but my eyes shut
Swirling slowly my sorrow.
The mist spread out, surround me
With her soft arms.