Thousands of poems captured on those lonely nights but not a one could do when it’s just not you
She must be a queen of innocent eyes She must’ve sweet smell of incense She must be a stunning beauty She must be a quiet music of all your poetry.
Our whispers sleepy, our hands drawn To the lonely streak of an infant mist Like the blood world of waves, The chisel of a shadow bygone, You’ll never see it again.
alone; the serpent’s blood
betrays the sea of lovers
that fall upon
one by one.
I want to forget
I want to delete
onto the cherry blossoms silently
with bloodshed, caressed to dreams
in the awakened winter, arak trees.
illustrated in millenniums
where our scars fall,
while silence deranges
sanctity in the deep spines
and limbs of animals
the air collapses
Darker than apparition
And I fall before the red branches, frail, wholly upon the utter stone that reared none for blood-sake,
And I kneel before the laughter and its fever, and its pride,
From before the evening of the distant fire among the blackened ocean, a beige fog,
Which lured me alone,
I called out to you
For the present, memory is rattled by the sorrel sobs that do not quell from my bleeding lips And I, now enclosed, in the flowers and darkened furnaces that blemished on my pale skin, I do not know, nor do I remember, but it is through the ashes in my weary palms, On the ghoul traces of wind that says to me, ensconced, “Slicked through the tears of the dark clouds with wraith-like fires upon a weak soul, The wind shall hear no name...
You bring me the Sun and Moon at your pale weary palms,
Your tilted wrists glinted with dew drops of sweat,
You hold the Sun, exerting faint balmy breaths of gold on your right hand,
And you grasp the pale white- lit rippling silver pool iris of the Moon on your left,
You took the glistening bronze celestial orbs from their faded folds of the silk threaded heavens
It is memory.
You fear the wind,
You fear the chance,
You fear plagues and of death;
Little auspicate, you’re winded, and drenched
By son of Ares and Aphrodite,
A little auspicate, therefore dreamt the worst;
My dear! Enwrapped around,
Senses displayed—I had thought the reality,
The drought and rings of nymphs,
And I, and I so foolishly pestered,
Thatched by those dead, those pranced,
At the sight of the endless bloom,
And I have remained in my quiet room.