During the day I am a pauper,
at night the only king.
The stillness of the tree,
the swaying of the branches,
the swing of the air,
wondering thought,
motionless action.
The crescent moon in my grasp,
half a moon in my arms.
The full moon is beyond my time.
Her window in my sight,
dark; but illuminated by my sight.
Let me have my solitude,
for my silence is intruded.
Let me have my melancholy,
for it’s about time my sorrows drowned.
Poetry is the place you visit,
when you have nowhere else to go.
The void of silence,
fills itself,by itself.
Let the noise fade,
for I want to listen.
There is still time for daybreak,
Let my solitary reign remain.
Tonight is another night,
the constant sky,
the empty clouds,
the wallowing sound,
the immolating silences.
The stars.
One bright another dark,
one stark another naked.
Today I am back home.
Belongingness is transcendental,
a traveller does not belong to the tavern,
he belongs to the journey.
The breeze soothes my fingers,
as my hand on paper,
paints my thoughts with it.
Her window is far.
Blurred, hazy yet clear enough.
The shadows of the night,
stay still in their motions,
they prey on the silence,
guided by the stillness.
Poetry is the place you visit,
when you have nowhere else to go.
And right now there is no other place,
I would want to be in.
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