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…
I'm afraid to talk to people who read my poems.
They try to dig me up
For the ‘true meaning' of things.
When will they learn?
Each word, sentence, action
Stands for an emotion.
People use their heads too much.
It's so heavy,
They can’t even hold it up to think anymore.
And those who think
Don’t think enough.
Their veins don’t throb,
They've forgotten to shiver
Like a bluebird with an arrow through the chest.
They've forgotten to gasp for air
Like the fish in a shattered bowl.
They've forgot to embrace pain.
They're too scared of it.
But the earth has seen enough blood to not care anymore.
The tribesman has shot enough arrows not to miss the bluebird anymore.
They just don’t feel it.
If poetry can’t make one ignore one's logic;
If poetry can’t make one feel the heart beat in one's head,
I don’t know what will.
Such people can’t be helped.
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