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…
The days float quietly
Like a bubble on a cup of coffee,
Going round and round
With the entire ceiling reflected on in;
A ceiling that’s cracked
And lacking paint here and there
As if covered by blisters
That never seem to heal…
Blisters inflicted
By age and moss,
That expand…
With the paint falling off
But by bit.
One day a scratch of paint will fall into the cup
And pop the bubble,
Making the tea forget
All that it saw of the ceiling…
Making the tea forget
That it itself exists…
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