Under the crescent moon,
she plants seeds of gleam,
imagining that
they sprout as veils of gleam
to wrap the world softly
Wounded days
are fluttering
around her,
but she never stops
imagining a string
to new days
She wipes her tears
with muddy hands
She smiles
with muddy face
Under the crescent moon,
she swears
to let veils of gleam bloom
Poetry and Me, Sometimes Coffee 