A half moon and a garaged rickshaw
The stop beneath the silent bridge
And the last tram passes away with midnight bells.
Sometimes I roam there
...
Again the bell tolls. Somewhere far away from a distant Church. The cold winds pass and the feet sinks into the fallen leaves within the ornamented flowers and the scattered petals on the brown soil.
...
Then the evening will slowly turn into the night and we would walk down the steps through the arch gate and the ageless pillars to the ruins. There will be a pause in converse.
...
Drenched
Often beneath the Lighthouse
Where the mystery ends and the magic starts
The wind awaits that ancient sailor
The sand grains his vintage words
His words like a day with the morning river
Or the shelter below the snow capped hills
Or the bare cry of the bird at midnight
Or like the blood of the first farmer
Like a shiver of a shadow in first kiss
Within all the dark and mud of the world
The look into her eyes like that pain never forgotten
He comes out pure and fresh
And then there is sun the poetry and again the rain.