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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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Illusion and death

 


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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