In my lonelines, I lie in my bed
hopelessly listening to the chirping of crickets
The consoling breeze blowing from the cracks of my window
whistling tunes that re-echo from my bamboo bed
sending every hanging object to a dancing practice session:
reacting to every string in a recession

The intermittent cry of lonely owls
adds a base to the consoling rhapsodies
Sounds that also remind villagers
About the witches taking off
To their fate-deciding kingdoms
Kingdom where grown-up and deceased share the same bench
cooking infants' body parts
humming songs of destruction

A sudden cry of a baby
will be hushed by swearing from an angry parent, a witch patent.
At least, they believe
So others are awake, relieved I felt

The breeze blows and steals the light from my kerosene lamp
A precious possession...