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…
When you were there
There was nothing else.
There was just your smile,
Your wits,
And your heart.
There was just this fire;
This flame crying,
Unable to burn the glass bottle thrown into it;
This flame jumping
To burn my heart rotating on your stick.
This flame has burnt me
Far more than anyone can heal.
This flame has burnt me
From the inside.
I've become
A lark that can’t sing,
A wing-less cupid,
A guitar playing with a single string.
This flame has burnt me
Far more than anyone can heal.
This lark won’t sing again.
But it waits for someone to lie to it
That it shouldn’t worry
And that nothing is it's fault.
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