The rain is loud now, As if a giant feet arises from the clouds To step on the river under the bridge of my heart And disturb it in such a way That the sails of ships bend, And the water touches the bridge from below, Tickling it to sorrow… The rain is loud now, But actually, it has always been like this. You were there once, And I never felt it. But now, All there is Is this sorrow That tickles me from inside, As if it wants me to laugh, Yet doesn’t let me At the same time…
Mayflies
Leaving themselves on the balcony,
On the hanging clothes,
In the flower pot.
Wet in the rain.
Being cleaned,
Thrown somewhere
Together.
But those in the flower pot.
The very few in the flower pot
Lay forgotten
For good.
They'll decay,
Becoming
Manure,
Soil,
Root,
Stem,
Flower.
Yes, the flower,
Loved and watered everyday.
The flower
That need not wait for the rain.
And those loving the flower
Won't know they are loving the mayfly
As well.
And they'll not abandon the flower
Even if they realise it;
Which they will not.
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