There is no poet, no poet at all that is named Louis Birla~~~
I’ve written a few stings over the years that might be called ‘poetry.’ Here is a selection:
The trees dance to the singing wind,
but I hear the cicada-
familiar sound. [n.d]
The Moon can see my room,
casting shadows on the ceiling.
Indoor scenery [2021-07-16]
Gazing at the stars,
my right hand can hold them all.
I am excited. [2022-11]
In a sky of gray clouds
I can still see the stars that
I keep in my hand [2023-02]
Park bench.
Bird sings futile song
for my ears alone. [2023-02-06]
Summer wanes
The sound of the fan
occasionally takes my attention
My heart beats fast,
but I am not sweating
Not that much,
anyway. [2024-10-06]