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…
The curvy holes on violins,
A grass through the crack in the concrete,
Rain jumping off umbrellas,
Misty cliffs,
Tomatoes rolling out of a basket;
These are the beautiful things
We do not notice.
The wine is distributed to some many people
That no one gets anything.
There are too many straws in the same glass
That there's no room for much wine.
We are too busy to notice
The little things.
The designs on railings,
Flowery creepers on old gates,
The spark in the eyes of young lovers
About to kiss for the first time.
An embrace
From lover to lover,
Parent to child,
Young to old.
A light
Through yellow paper,
A painted church window,
An empty hourglass,
A soul;
Shimmering to die or be reborn.
We don’t see these little things.
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