This is a warm month.
I am fed up of these travels
from ones to thirties.
I long for a distant land
without a March, or a February.

On the sill of the open window,
for some fresh air, I sit.
Mirror reflects the blind glow
of my moonlight plated chrome face.

The breeze that goes past
without ever looking back
plunges a question into my skull,
"Did you wrong, oh poet?"
Blooming a comforting dawn
in my troubled silly mind,
a smile disappears from my lips.

This night comes with
the death of memories. But
I know, it will not last long,
for I have to be alive again.
In my sleep I realise that
I am, strangely,
none to myself.

(1999)