What I Will Not Tell You

The night is ill
	The moon nurses
Drunken cloud
	Wanders ahead
Wind pretends
	Great busyness 
Rain cries his eyes out
	In a worried night

Crowd in your door
	Doubt if to go: in or out.

Far road
	Moon grants wings to me

I collect dry petals
	of last year’s flowers
to bury under them
	the distance of my longing

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