My mouth I do think,
is munching my words.
How weirdly my tongue,
Still seeks out the norm.
A slobbering salivation,
of unwritten sayings,
My teeth a brazen thief,
nibbling thoughts in the night.
Lips obscenely shaped,
in the poets’ hungry quest,
For the strange articulate taste,
Of a pilfered sour waste,
from bland and bleary words,
I am forever forced to swallow.

As my years went by, I begged for peace,
Freedom from many hundreds of burdens.
I asked you once and received no answer:
What could be better than going home?
A wind from the future blows my curtain,
And my eyes are bright with the evening moon.
You asked me once about good and evil,
Listen for my singing, I’ll be home soon.

Antiquity lives now as a pale-yellow dust,
Confusing to the remnants of its ruins,
While old bones bleach whiter with age

A cold wind is whistling under my door,
And the city's naked wail,
sounds pale with the tune.
I see an alley cat crossing fast,
A silent shadow on the roadside path,
And faint I  hear on the wind in the night,
Thousands of typists on the internet.
Instead of wishing for the moment to slow,
To bear me away and watch me go,
I have found your poem so beautiful,
That I forget the cat crossing the path,
To the tune of typists on the internet.