GODS ARE SILENCED
On this island, Gods are silenced,
as if prayer has lost its mighty force.
The plague has claimed the toll,
letting our beliefs to solemnly fall.
Who left those children on the street,
begging for money to get fed?
While parents put the best effort,
earning a fortune, redeeming a lost job.
They said we live in the land of magic,
but yet our lives are left in tragic.
“I don’t believe in pandemic!”
a man said,
yet he watches news every single day.
Someone died, another one’s suffered.
We count the number again and again,
without any knowledge on when to end.
AS EARLY AS THE MORNING DEW
That’s how you left, my dear,
walked silently into the forest’s heart,
giving up senses to the universe,
surrendering your body to cold land,
as early as the morning dew.
There was no shadow, but a deep sorrow.
leaving cold our morning coffee,
on a table for two, I set for I and you,
in the porch of our ramshackle shack.
You didn’t tell me yet, my dear,
if it’s too sweet or it’s too bitter.
Midnights, I woke up amidst the grief.
My anger, it raised, then it’s cleansed,
as fast as the dew could relieve,
my mourning,
in those early mornings,
and all pains my nerve could feel,
but you didn’t care to heal.
THE TALE OF A CITY
So mother told me,
of a city where she
could freely buy an orange tree,
and mooncakes
wrapped in some fancy sheet.
‘T’was carefully baked’,
she cheerly feed it
to my brother and me.
But ssshhhhh,
she said a secret is a secret,
and that’s how we should live it
An orange tree and mooncakes,
please let nobody see it.
Or they would come and make it
a fine excuse to chop our feet.
She sang a song of hill and sea,
hurried riding down the street.
Poor mother never made it,
a safe return to a place called home.
In red she went,
but,
in black we eternally wait.
THIS LITTLE MAN
This little man you see in the tv
was a man who led a county,
of a bunch of wheat, and grass, and berries,
so we need not frown in worries,
or drown in thirst and famine.
This little man who laughed at a cheap comedy,
you throw while pointing at his body,
teasing, mocking, satisfyingly,
was the man behind that spectacular show
on the broad way that everyone long to follow,
accompanied by ‘the Matador’s Tale’
of Lortz’s symphony, winning without fail.
And yet, you think you are the king?
A RED, RED ROSE
He said he’ll pick me,
a blooming rose off the garden
― his mother’s!
He once promised,
to get an apple from the tree,
― he’ll climb it himself
as a proof of a heart as red as the rose
or the apple,
he said that
to me.
But lies are lies,
neither the scent of the roses
nor the sweetness of the apples
could entirely cover
and dissemble the smell
of rotten eggs hidden you’ve put
below the pile of autumn leaves in the backyard
― it’s ours.
MY COFFEE, AND THE MOUNTAIN, AND ME
Its puffing steam wrapped up my chilling soul,
on the bleak of the peak of the mountain.
As the moment you walked out of my home,
I saw no spark of light inside,
giving some sense of warmth,
or simply illuminating the pitch-black night,
of the stormy winter.
I promptly sipped my cup to empty,
leaving my lips savoring the bitter-sweet flavor,
last for about a minute – or two – I don’t remember exactly.
The lake stretched mightily in front of me,
singing a song about the war survivor,
along with the howling wind and the rolling mist.
How does it feel to dissolve in the air
like the steam of coffee in my cup this morning?
I might fall as a rain on the top of your tree
in your the front yard that you’re always proud of,
and kissed gently your wavy hair,
on the way out – or in – it doesn’t matter which one,
for one last time.
Just before the earth locked me up,
under your footsteps.
