On the alabaster skin of the morning,
beneath the cliffs where the wind retracts,
the rising sun dances.

I begin drawing the transfigurations
skimmed on the surface of inkwell.
A smoke covers up my writing
issuing out of the ink.
There is a whole forest in flame!

On the drum of earth,
rage-broken downpour dances.

You enter my porch,
and cast your shadow in darkness.
I can see your dimples and eyes
that starve to flow.

I am looking into a pair of eyes
that lost their memory.