The puils of your eyes
wreath the night road
with mystery
and lovely patterns take shape.
When i hold a glass
nostalgia quietly awakes;
my only shelter.
A cloud drifts
into the tearing wind.
A silent misty rain,
you press my lips like a thief.
Against our inner urges
we're made to cross each other.
stars which pass by quickly
may touch your heart.
Wren's Elegy
Youn sook Moh
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