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…
Angels with drooping blue wings
Sit on empty graves,
Watching over the void,
The names under which nothing lies,
The flower growing through a crack in the rock;
Life growing from death.
Grass with thorns will spring out as well,
Disorder
Like untamed hair,
And crush the flowers.
There is a wildness to an old grave,
Just like the man whose name is written on it.
There is a wildness to an old grave,
That comes out from us;
All of us
Only after we die.
We can’t live when we're alive.
There is always rules,
And society,
Privacy,
Temperance,
Good touch,
Bad touch.
We can’t live when we're alive,
But no one judges the dead.
We are free to live through the grass
To express our wildness.
And it's okay if they don’t understand.
Those who understand
Will ponder over it forever,
Like I’m doing now.
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