Strangers, among ourselves,
will make this poem pronounced.
Standing on the brim of imagination,
oozing the irresistible yet undefined
complexion, unidentified souls
negotiate under the cover of night—in narrations,
and wait to become many—in realization.
Make me a mask, my strangers,
so I can reincarnate into a fairy, a god, and a ghost, to show you
my face here and there and nowhere.
Make me a cup of tea as salty as sea,
so I can drift away from this island to the other end
of mountains, and manifest the center
and the verge of a universe.