Just write ,it would  whisper , in black
and in white,when it is still dark night.
one  must take in the night, its two roses
sleeping in the night ,in waking yellow
and crimson, rising from a little earth
to  higher reaches, where wind strikes
and the sun strikes a flower into being.

come to the balcony opening to street's night
project to the street, a stream of silent people
shuffling feet in their absence, in their futures
all the while a black increasing to only dissipate
beyond the apartment, beyond the gnarled tree

now in the room, before  a curtain of sound
a sound of marriage strikes a bamboo stick of holes
in a music of two bodies , in a night of black 
as it turns orange beyond a dead standing tree,  
a wishful  tree of old dreams, its old birds' dreams,
staring at its  stumps.