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 see a bluebird on the empty branch
Against the blue sky;
Singing:
Random, Yet somehow melodious...
A Van Gogh painting;
Perfect
without a single shadow
Cast by any of the objects...
Perfect
Because of clarity
And clarity alone.
Then the bird takes off
And gets tangled within the mesh of branches...
Trying to move,
Getting punctured in the chest,
And those little wings..
Those little wings...
Dying
Like a contorted spine,
A Stabbed heart,
A wrinkled hand
Reaching out to touch a weeping cheek;
A cheek now red..
Soon to turn white...
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