The bell tolls, looking like a window hole.
All birds lost their wings long time ago.
The gate is open in the fateful garden;
Great Mahasiddha will be born from crab shell.
And even Brahma, the old god,
Has gotten ill, although it's odd:
He's lost his faces, now he steadies,
Distilling alcohol from berries...
© St.Sol @ LT: all rights reserved.
I realize that pressing "Thanks"
is really hard for most of you, yet
you should keep on trying...