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…
They kill us and take our skulls
To place on thick books that won’t close otherwise,
They hang the swings too low
So only kids will sit on them.
They shatter mirrors
And the heads of statues.
They take clothes off clotheslines
And leave the clips there.
They see a hand sinking into the bog
And do nothing.
What if
The hand chokes them to death?
What if
The hand doesn’t want to be saved?
They stare elsewhere,
Like they're seeing the Sistine chapel from the inside,
Like they're looking at the pyramids;
No longer a pretty sight to look at.
People see
And people hear
And people shout from their houses
At the news on TV.
But that's all that happens.
When someone is shattered,
Burnt,
Going down in a bog,
They scream.
But that's all that happens.
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