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…
Feet with shoes neatly tied,
Kept touching each other,
With a flower nearby.
There is an instinct to crush it.
But I resist
And look at the dew glittering,
The stalk sticking out,
The red lines on yellow petals.
I resist
And watch the wind move it away from my feet,
Afraid of the animal in me.
I am also human,
But they don’t see it.
I am also capable,
But they don't see it.
They see an old jug,
And keep it in the museum
For eyes that fake appreciation
To show others they are ‘cultured’.
They keep it in the museum,
Forgetting it is still useful.
They saw me become an animal once
And I kept being an animal forever
Inside them.
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