All poems stillborn, aborted in a process of creation, the sort of them so numerically present, then bury them all and  give them a requiem.
For resuming all I need  it, hey sunny windy day, you!

Sunny windy days, in thicket with high tall grasses, it tempts me to stay more, coz all these shakings seem to be so lonely to me.

Sunny windy day's shade is paler and so transperent. All shady things beautiful.

Sunny windy days'' afternoon annoys me in writing my new poem, too much hints and sights to write down. 

The degree to be nearly born, but aborted things make me in lingering attachment, mind is pulled to miscarriage and regret never to keep their life.

Thus, bury all never born poems! You can do it so solemnly, hey, sunny windy day, you!

Please, tell me everything! Just you told me that time I don"t want passing so soon could do so against my hope, but contrary, bored time could never pass so fast, for me.

All seem so good poem is all intriguing me to attract forever to it, then bury them all, I just talk to you so, sunny windy days' clearly paler shade and sunny spots in harmonized combination.
(Jun. 4, 5th. 2020)