It's about the homesickness of the trip. The voice that ever comes out of our lips is anxiously trying to string up prayers, allowing our tongues to name their traces as the secret of the universe.
Apparently this foot is no longer willing to step, when this afternoon broke perfectly and managed to fold the twilight.
Through this poem, let me paint the twilight. Because my canvas is no longer white, flattened with light flakes in the air by the eyes of an air; You, the owner of that beautiful kirana. But the distance
I am grateful that you have been willing to provide distance, even though we have verbal abuse with the most moaning language; the sweetest language of the longing, hiding on a stoutly acrostic body carving your name, as well as the twilight. Keep our meetings secret in the jungle of the metaphor.
