For this “ugly lovely town” and the poet Dylan Thomas, Swansea, Wales



The gentle night

From the forking view, a being of times,
Obeying the natural law of the book.
The flounder can't see it with smiling,
Wanted to prove it is liberating.

My precursors of night, 
Such a gentle continuum.
Thee gradually accepts
The fear of sleeping.
She casts me,
What the persona liked;
Your faces; 
A face in fog.

O you couldn't communicate,
It's fathomed.
O running into the woods,
You dived with night,
Ought the yearning?



Whisper from the sea

Wind from the cave
The intentions at her
It’s blooming again


Go, to the night

For seeing your sky
Scary are excuse
The state’s appealing


Off the shore

Crossing the years
The shore of one’s light
Haunting my eyes


Siren of nowhere

Years’ silhouette
Oyster or tree
The sinking boat


Here to my home

Far, my hometown
Faraway of present
Looking for root