Now that I have closed the doors
of the city of love
and have thrown the key
of each gate
into the jade-eyed sea of oblivion
this little timorous feeling of hope
is so consoling:
Beyond the forbidding walls of the prison
in a small lane
of the old walled city
there is a little window
still open in my name.
I kept my fists tightly clenched for about two hours continuously. Was it out of nervousness? Do I still feel nervous? When I opened them, I felt a twinge, I looked at them and there were crescent marks left over my palms by my nails. But the pain was more to soul, lesser to body. If my heart broke thousand of times, and dreams turned gray, and if my life didn’t move a step since some old night, and if I say that the space between the times I’ve managed to forget and the times I’ve managed not to forget haunts me like millions of reptiles crawling inside my stomach and, if I say that even loads of kohl doesn’t suffice to help me hide the insomnia of my eyes these days, would it bring even the slightest change in life?
Can I ask my days why they are so different from how my nights are or can I ask my nights why’re they so damn killing and shattering?
Answer me, please/
the spring has set in! quite early isnt it, lol ‘))) it was the last week of january, though a little cloudy, but the sweet change was in the air, new buds, flowers, n dead leaves all together.i think everthing is fantastic in spring; the sun, the little pretty flowers, the green light in the forests, the young leaves…. and buzzing bees, I can feel that my heart beats quicker, and you only want to smile. It’s a kind of ecstasy. anyway it was a beautiful morning and while strolling around, I took up some snaps of this early spring in my garden, that refreshed some memories and my soul. ”)
……..posing buds and fresh leaves ‘)
There were times, not long ago, when we , me and my sis, all cold and wet played in the rain. Swinging and dancing the whole time. 🙂and there were times too, when i spent the whole evenings on this very swing, building high castles in the air, fighting over turns with my sister! ‘)
in the flower bushes
blooming away upon the sunny skies
where pretty larks chirps the same ol’ song
oh breezy oh sweet breezy
i want to dance & smile
maybe you should hold my hand
& run a thousand hills
cos i love u so
& i’d run a thousand hills
on the fields while autumn leaves twirl
like a cute tornado going ’round & round
high into those sunny skies
& oh spring aww that wonderful spring
i want to sleep & feel you near me
there is no better than butterflies
the lovely feeling of butterflies
make me fly
make me castaway
over the calm meadows
over the sketching milky way
can you see?
in your painting mind,
i’m only outside
waiting for u—eagerly!
I’m falling apart
Mend my broken heart
from the sweet whistle from between his lips
and fast toward the pane she ran
unnoticed, on her tips.
The dew on the window
wishing that they neared,
The birds outside stopped to sing
and wind to make trees swing.
Their eyes met a moment or two,
while the wind carried his kiss to her,
and as she turned to the mirror behind,
she thought she looked beautiful….
She stood by the lake,
waiting for him to come –
waited through the falling flakes
until her fingers fell numb.
And then he came,
to warm her with his hug
and on the horseback carried his dame
her head in his shoulders dug.
And she was greeted by her father at home,
He said she looked beautiful…
At night when the lights were dim,
came a knock on her door,
& zoom she ran; knowing it was him,
whose name her heart bore.
A good night kiss they kissed for long,
their hearts dancing to their love’s song
but now she had to hurry back
before someone could spot through the black.
And as she ran her sister held her close,
mumuring, ‘sister, you look beautiful!’
But deep inside she knew
It was not God’s art or people’s view
but his kiss, his hug and his love’s pull
that they said she looked beautiful.
It’s a messy sight.
Perfume, lotion, lipstick, eyeshadow, eyeliner, mascara, foundation… bottles and bottles and countless other containers all sprawled across a small desk. Their reflections bounce off the large unbordered mirror hanging on the wall.
She lies in her bed, eyes red and bleary. In her hand — those lovely hands, so ghostly pale in the dim light — she clasps a wad of tissue, all wet and crinkly with her tears. At that very moment, wet dewdrops well up in her eyes again. Slowly, slowly, they trickle down her face, down onto her pillow, drenching the fabric.
She opens her eyes. Sits up on the bed a little. Stares at the mirror. Her own tear-stained face stares back.
Holding her hand up to the weak moonlight streaming in through the window, she examines her dark red nails. Blood. Nail polish the color of blood.
The wind ruffles the thin, white gossamer-like curtains. They flutter in the wind like butterflies’ wings. She breathes shallowly, hurriedly, as her tears fall again.
The toilette table stands guard close to her as she weeps.
Her heart is broken. The perfume knows. Its gentle, floral fragrance caresses, soothes the broken pieces.
Her heart is broken. The foundation knows. It brushes a soft, powdery hand over the wound, in an attempt to cover it up.
Her heart is broken. The nail polish knows. Its deep red resembles her bleeding heart. It poured, and then smoothed, some of itself onto the sides of the break. All the bottles and containers pushed, and glued the two halves together again.
She sighed, a tired sigh. The broken heart, somewhat healed, beats, slowly, but beats.
What is fantasy and what is real?