May my tongue be holy,
And my will be broken.
Fields shy away from me.
The city has offers me up,
Unwanted.
In my other language my dream
Is disturbing
the barbed wire fence beyond,
So many cutters cutting cutely.
My soul struggles
In scorching liquid glass.
His thumb print is the moon.
In His blessings,
designs of snow,
promises rare and sweet.
Miniature Moon 