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 thought the hill was full of white flowers
And ran to lie in the grass;
To let them tickle my ears,
And drench my shirt in fragrant dew.
I thought the hill was full of white flowers
And ran to lie in the grass.
But the flowers grew wings and flew away;
Butterflies:
White wings with yellow rings.
A Marvel against the cloudless sky;
Like a painting coming alive;
The paint sticking out here and there
Imperfectly,
Making it perfect.
I thought the hill was full of white flowers
And ran to lie in the grass.
But the flowers flew away,
And all the happiness I could get
Touched my heart gently
Like a porter being gentle,
Yet shaping the clay significantly.
But now it's gone
And the porter left before the pot was complete.
But the lump of clay still stays there,
Hardening into some bashed up shape
Like it was dug up from the sands of the Nile,
Like it is hundreds of years old.
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