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…
There’s a mask on the grass;
With red feathers
And glowing golden lips.
There’s a mask on the grass,
But it won’t remain the same for long.
Soon the grass towers around,
And pink flowers grow out of the eyes.
Rain taints the feathers
And breaks them into red snippets
Which will fly and fly away...
And the soil rumbles like a hungry monster,
Slowly bubbling up...
First coming out
Through the eyes,
The nose,
The crack on the cheek.
The soil rumbles like a hungry monster,
Devouring the mask.
All that remains
Are flowers,
Butterflies,
Dew...
All that remains
Is one last feather,
Not weathered into many...
Waiting for its time.
For in nature,
Anything standing out
Should eventually blend in...
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