My Own God

What I knew as nothingness
ought to be my God

All the work is dull and clouded today
Among those clouds I remain a cloud
I love petty remainings, deep darkness
Read me again, I’m a simple moss

A bunch of water-chestnut with its silent music
covering the profound shadow;
the water of the pond.

The Forest
(Dedicated to Charles Baudelaire)

Long deep forest of symbols.
Walking onto this path is rigorous
Not so easy, accessible
complicated life leaves impression here and there
Rest is covered with mystery and mist
He alone walks through the mist as a myth
A slender, torn script in his hand
A fox or a charmed child
Can feel his steps under the fading light

In the subtle repertoire of the subconscious
A real reader notes it down for future