There is a bird in the poplars!
It is the sun!
The leaves are little yellow fish
swimming in the river.
The bird skims above them,
day is on his wings.
Phoebus!
It is he that is making
the great gleam among the poplars!
It is his singing
outshines the noise
of leaves clashing in the wind.

I want you to burn with jealousy
just so I can have my summer in winter.

Words are not weapons,
And this is not a war.

Every dot takes a space
millions of dots can make
a straight line
or can create an arbitrary path

Where we are traveling
that can make life simple
or can draw a circle
that turns you again
to your home

Or an uneven line
that creates a sway
where the river moves   
but can't say that
there was no space
before the big bang

Each word has a pour
that impact could be
low or loud  
but some words can make
a metaphor
a poem

Can catch happiness
or sadness
can art an imagery
of nature
life

Or a thought
that can make an illusion
or a fusion between
the love and the hope
that we perches into our soul

Every bits of sound holds an emotion
thousands of bits make a rhythm
that can build a song
whether it's a song of joy

Or sad
or a true loop
that never terminate
thee love of  

Or a rebel tune
that makes a struggle
for the independence
which can make an eternal
freedom song!

The water turned brown in the rain,
An eagle hangs in the maples arms above.
The toads jump green on shore,
The meander fills with shells,
Skipping stones and drift wood.
The current carries 500 feet per second.
The bait fish feast on flies,
Jumping into the air unrestrained and ignorant
While I carry the weight of the city,
Little town kayak holds me up,
A raft against the natural life
Beyond the reach of people,  
Only dead fish float down stream.