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Silence is for lifeless.

Out of the celestial-land is none lighting.


Only one lamp is too difficult to be interacting.


A name,

Still seems to contain extra syllables.

All other sounds, these voices.
They are everywhere.

Whenever I hear it. 

These things are scratched by everything.

Oh, sigh.

 I must immediately pause my step and listen to it.

Try to vehemently correct my lips and tongue.

The wrong pronunciation is like the fatal mistake.

This may be the reason I did not give you any feedback.

It was as if they were the reason why you were not with me anymore.

 I am right, I am indeed right.

You just want me to let you off forever, right?


        Snowing, freezing. 

I sat beside the window and
     watched the street scenery through the glimpse space of the window. 

I was wondering what will
     happen if I carelessly fall down on the ground from 10 floors. 

Hey, nice to hear you Death.

How long time will it take that
     my body from ten floors to the ground? 

What will show on my mind when
     it happens suddenly? 

Will I try hard for surviving? 

How do peoples react when a
     human falls down on the ground? 

I felt afraid.

I closed the window suddenly. 

The god perspective made this
     scenery like an attracted virtual world

I should jump in my bed now, my
     stupid and creepy spirit are gonna kill my physical body.


There is no
     need to name it or anything.

Floating suedes at night, its
     orange and purple were melting down. 

Don’t have to invoke the
     bygone; it’s not necessary. 

I just calm down here like a
     stop-sign repeating the words I represent.

Jet-lag of elves, they almost
     faint on the summer blacktop. 

Their fallen intention is
     invalid: No, I won’t let me be their goal.


After reading it, gnaw off my grave…

Please don't stitch them back.

My bones finally receive a release, it doesn't own any love.


Snow fell gently and smoothly,


The elves were floating and filling in the atmosphere.


The scenery,


It is extremely tempting and charming.


The fragment flash instantly,


It is the cruelest landscape.


Nighties are as burlesque as nude dreams.

Buffoon skins, disgusting cages, 
                             ridiculous films,
they seem to come from hell after death.

They are my own spectres with a twisted and ferocious face.

And brought the putridity then inviting me to party with them someday.


 If I had a magic mirror. 

I would always stand in front of it.


      located it with

the other two regular mirrors


      a mysterious triangle space.


How to aggressively use knife blades to chop off our fate?

The wound,
as if a territory was shredded mercilessly tearing into pieces:

How cruel!


The white-haired warrior, the last guardian of our spirit,


stands up,

fights back,


using his last strength.

Each thread of grey smoke from the war flame tries to save us.

It’s such dreary and gloomy.

The conflict between the sword and our lives.


Lingering resonance above the shaft; continuous moaning below the shaft.

Tick Tac Tick, Huh Uh Huh…

Similar to water dripping; like fragrant beads.

Similar to recite a poetry; also like honry speech.

Heartleft; evilly…

Both are the Holy Spirit.


[ XX, terminology word (vibration)] can value your soul,

fogging your heart and dragging you into the universe of mythology.


Your silent.

The sound when I smash a snowball.


Snow fell gently and smoothly,

The elves were floating and filling in the atmosphere.

The scenery,

It is extremely tempting and charming.

The fragment flash instantly,

It is the cruelest landscape.


The closer you get the sea,

The source of its pain,

The wound from the ground.


On shores
  of the darknesses, nameless monsters crashed the reefs, abruptly and

A hell watchman wanders
  around the coast in a dull atmosphere.

The echo of the sea is
  extremely peaceful.

The stars of the darkness are
  cold as a ghost flame, and they string together the ribs of the moon.

I got myself into
  a cell...

No one can help me get out of
  this self-punished execution room.

Beating every who want to
  release me out from this blue valley.


Take a perpetual rest,


       I put my hands on my chest as a cross.


The elves and angels from the heaven gently whisper to me,


      The cross which on my breast,


      it will lead my soul flying into myself.


A painting is a person placed between

      light and canvas

so that its shadow casts on the canvas.

Then, this person signs

      her name

on it,

and poetry is

     a shadow

written on this person.


It's snowing…

Snow and ash are compressed together on the ground.

One day in the winter, I was buried, and the birds walked around my tomb.

Snowflake, if it's thick enough to conceal a body.

Did the birds take the putrid breath of my corpse -- Their oxygen?

I'm hiding in the birds' crowd.
I don't want to look up to glance at my grave.

It's a heroic behaviour, gently eating my messy and dirty life by their beak.


The grass on my girl's grave

      is a rare species

that must be supported

      by at least one mourner's tears every year for surviving.

The water will always drain in            the deep drought of the seed

      because the roots of her greed and sadness need our care.

I should not be depressed about her leaving.



      cried eyes feel more than I feel deep inside.


Swimming in green water means you may never reach the shore.

However, if the waves are blue; you may regain your stroke and blow more.

The past surface shades can find arranging dust; your tone; full reverberation and earthen hues.

It is neither prime nor light, and its prisms are almost all shallow bathtubs.

Each island can be found in the scene saved in the paint.

Picturesque but quickly submerged,


sharpen the sanctuary:


wake up,

wake up…

Says, there's no grave on the ground


Your silent.

The sound when I smash a snowball.


Creative production should not be a pleasant process.

It is painful.

It allows you to throw your soul from height then become bloody;

It makes you pick up a sharpened knife and swing toward your body then flesh lacerated from corporal punishment.

And you,

Will get some enjoyment from this self-mutilation process.

If there is no pain in the production process,

This work does not have any life.

It is only a dead object,

It is shameful to produce a dead body.

As a producer, you should be ashamed.

The work filling with pleasure is only like excrement.

 It is a thing output from your body,

At the same time, it is also extremely stench.


In the heart of a religious Saint, Death is so forgiving.

In the eye of a mystic beholder, Death is so spectacular.


Life and living appear to be so dirty and unbearable; so deeply sinful.


The soul rises up and fights against the dreadful suffering in real life.


Those pains have propagated throughout the entire body.


Misery seems like integrated into the blood and tissues; continuously tortured this ordinary human body.


Even while sleeping, suffering still tortures this fragile body.


It makes you awakened at the middle of the night; your whole body paralysed.


It makes you use even ounce of your rage to squeeze out the pigment; employ the most violent style to leave evidence on the canvas;


Feels like the blood stain gushed out from the torn body after the aftermath of the torn torment.


PS: Enlightenment is the only answer.





As the teenager as fall in love,

As the warrior as forwarding the adventure into the unknown future;


Fiery summer,

      Tender autumn,

Quiet winter,

       Peace spring; 

Thank you my dear,

      Thank you my sunshine,


How lucky am I,


How lucky am I…


I love you, deeply

I love you, sincerely…

I love you.


Because at least one couple is making love,

somewhere in the world at all time.

Because those two are always pressed tightly together,

hatred can never float between them to come to destroy us.


Poetry is a

It contains all the space in
  which it is located.

You embrace my way when I lie
  next to you.

Maybe, your arm can fold my
  position; the centre of this area or in the air of the chamber.

It tries to enter and
  penetrate from the thunderstorm.

It finds me once again, then
  I just recognized the proximity between us.

This poem wanders alone; ever
      forever... ...



                                  -ver... ...




Destroy all the mountain,

then use its fragment to create a refuge.

Formed solely of the fragile rock.

Each piece was signed with morality;
Each part was unique, engraved with honesty; 
Each position located gravely;

Who forbids its trivial?
Who forms its spiritual adjournment? 

These frag stones are placed together to construct my asylum.

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