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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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Freedom is a dream

 


The baby is born making a fist,

Punching the uterus until it breaks…

Then punching the air

Hoping to break that as well.

It punches and punches

And realizes 

The fist can’t free it again…

The palm opens,

A white flower is being splattered with blood

Somewhere,

 The sand in the hourglass is blocked by an infant snake

Somewhere,

The sea smells of rotting veins

Somewhere…

The baby is born making a fist

That gradually opens

So it can do more than punch.

Now it can hold

Rusted chains and iron bars

That can break the new uterus

It is stuck in;

A uterus

Where one doesn’t feel the warmth of one’s own blood,

But is boiled in the blood of others…

Spilt by one’s own hand.

The palm is stronger than the fist,

For it can hold a weapon…


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