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Loud Rain

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…
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Beauty of self

 The mountain sits there

Like a giant old man;

Humps like knees,

Peaks like shoulders,

Ice hanging like beard-hair.

The mountain sits there

Like a giant old man,

Grunting frequently

About the wind,

Existence,

It’s own helplessness.

He is lucky enough

To see the white foxes,

To see the lake freeze,

To see the sky flash in all colours.

Yet he is sad

And lonely

And miserable.

He crouches

To protect himself;

Even he doesn’t know from what.

He crouches

And claims he doesn’t have the luck

To see things other than

The white foxes,

The frozen lake,

The lights.

But he doesn’t know

There is nothing more beautiful to look at

Than he himself.


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