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…
He is a red flower in the white vase
On the window sill,
Seeing himself all the time;
Seeing his own petals crawling with bugs
And falling…
He is a red flower in a white vase
On the window sill,
Seeing himself all the time,
But not seeing himself clearly.
Sometimes there is rain,
And he believes his face is getting distorted,
Sometimes the sun devours his reflection
And he believes he’s going invisible…
He sees himself,
But not always clearly;
Sometimes there is a bug on the pane,
Or some kind of dirt.
Sometimes people look in,
Sometimes there is a crack,
Or a glittering scratch
From the leafless branch
That gently rubs
To show romance.
One day someone will shut the window drapes,
And he’ll believe himself dead
While he is still alive…
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