When understanding vanishes we stare,
From eyes of nothing, at nothing of wall.
We will teeter on the edge of a thought.
Our words will then sound as soft poem
Like a breeze in our understanding tree
Meaningless but a high art in bleakness.
The syllables will drop soft on our minds
Like a midnight breeze in the pipal tree.
You shall then hear entirely by our lips
And tweak poetries directly from them.