Sublime
You will return but not to my side, the poems
That you wrote in that one solitary letter
Have begun to blur, with some of the word vanishing
Like gas. Becoming the air that i breath
Even though life is never willing to be like champor
Even while i have to wait and wait for you
To open the door, to catch the scent of your perfume
Between us, i’m not actually certain
How much this embrace really means
The moment to take you away
Is the moment you take me to die
At The Station
anyone might think
we are sitting at this station
in wait of someone
we know not who
trust is like fire
we only know, he will come
faithful twilight is on fire
its flame dancing
like is an opera
we are pair of gulls
meeting in storm
remembering a love with an unchanging climate
when we were so very much accursed
we could only wait
for someone, or anyone
without the heart to bring bad news
about candles or lanterns
distinguished bya typhoon
anyone might think
we are sitting at this station
as people, waiting for someone
we know not who
we know not why
Sandy Serenade
1.
We will learn to cry, but nor in poetry.
2.
He was just an entertainer, who tought humanitarian displays would
Finally end. But not that night; the sky was still red. Sand was in the
Air, attacking eyes that still could see. Afterwards he couldn’t see
Anything, except the past from within his heart.
What he felt was not hopelessness. There was sure to be a tomorrow.
A day when he would dance again at the end of rifle muzzle, and feel
The coldness of bullets in his body. But that night it was not cold, as if
The birth fire found in every mand had made his body pur with so
Much sweat it formed a small river leading to nil.
May be there won’t be a war. May be there won’t be death. But people
Welcome war and death with laughter and guffaws. He could not bear
The tightness in his chest. Oh.
3.
Isn’t history written in blood?
But he had only learned to write with ink
And cry with tears.
I tried to write this poem on twitter but there is no rain
And there is no you
In the line of time, there is no rain, no you,
Words descend from the sky line divine inspiration
But who can hear, who can see
We are accustomed to laughing at different things
But always cry for the same
Again and again, over and over, untiring
Each loneliness bequeathed to lovers
Who are defeated or die in their love
We stor carefully like a time capsule
Buried in the deep earth, near a tree
That was full grown since the time Adam
Come down to earth in his journey to find his love
In the line of time, people compete to be mentioned
But there is no mention of god, nor for you
I am the ant that escapes attention
And whenever I thin I’ve finished writing a poem
It’s then i also realize there cannever be enough of you
In the scop of 140 characters
The Last Rain in Memory
I will set aside this mist for you
until the time comes to meet
for leaves have only just begun to grow
after the curse of a century of drought
for my failure as a man to turn stones
into gold
an elderly alchemist named khidir
who disappeared into eternity
left a message for me:
even one drop of the bitter rain that fell that evening
is capable of becoming a new world
no one knows, I’ve even concealed my shadow
in that old and windowless house
and that I’m looking now for other shadows
cast by a woman with reddened lips
upon seeing her, the rain will lessen
and everyone will begin to affirm the feeling of pain
I will set aside this mist for you
until the time comes to meet
and the leaves that are styudying to write down names
don’t come to know how your name is spelled
as death or as love
(2014)
