The harmony of the morning silence at weekend
When the city is asleep
And the dew settles gently on the grass-less ground.
And when the giant-power hold holds its noise.
And the children are stretching their yawn for the last round of the day-break rest.
My deep inner harmony is disturbed by your memory.
Of the pains I cannot endure about this fairy power,
From the incessant talk and walk of your profession.
I with a large heart not for such occasion.
But for the agony of the beauty of your story.
Which tells the beauty of your other side,
And the other is a tale by yourself.
Told badly by my thought and watch.
From everyday life
And questions asked from curious minds.
All resulting from how things are not done by prescription.
Things can only be well,
But not anything good.