I am chocked in uttering the words
I spit the letters that
Crammed into mouth
Like the crusty wheats
Or ball of thorns
Stuck in the throat
Hymns of the rusted horns
In the cottage backyard
Happened by the rain
Then … A dry whistling borns
Rattle of the old door belongs to the grandfather’s workshop being opened at noon
On the table, Burnt stars and
Fragment of a moon
Illuminate the sweaty forth head
Before a snooze on the handmade chair
When the spanner, he clutches
Falls on the ground
Declaring by the awakening, his short term diving
Then, gazes around
And sleeps, once again


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