A crowd fills the river now.
The winds wears
new streamers, new sails today.
There is a festivals of flower
with a funeral of spring.
There is something in the air
that wants me to live,
though there is something else
in my heart
that cries for an end.
But the festivals go on
and I keep walking in the crowd.
I smile till I forget
the weight of that smile.
I keep walking till
the crowd fills my heart,
till I wear the world on me.
Till I feel the hand of wind
embracing me as if
I am also one of its dearest kids.
I am ready to give up my hate,
I am ready to believe,
I am ready to be good
if I am held like that once –
like I matter, like I have all that I need to live,
like I can be loved and be hated and be nothing to someone
and yet worthy of this world.
As my empty cup for tea
came crashing on the floor,
I heard another sigh escape me.
I turned back from the counter
and watched in resignation
as the winds mercilessly pushed through
the cushions, the magazines, the old discarded
phones that made no noise as they came
to find death second time.
The curtains and the window frames
came apart. The sad smiles, barely visible
through the annealed glass, cracked upon
and my ancestors fled away, rejoicing for first time
in the brokenness of this world.
I recalled all the videos I had seen
about the land of disasters and the restless hearts
that live there. I recalled the reasons
that cause such misfortunes, the incomplete
distracted television reports. But I didn’t have to think
of all that, to know what was happening to me.
The sky was clear
and I could hear people walking to festivals and carnivals
and towards to unbearable silence of funerals,
trying to laugh as much as they can before they get there.
I closed my eyes and waited with anxiousness,
waited without hopes
for love to appear again and make a mess of the life
I had spent years to put together.
I tried many times
to write about you,
to tell the world
why I loved you once
even when it makes no sense now.
when the days in the sun
seem like a dream, seem like a ruse,
seem like a bait
to everything that just gets worse.
when all that we once were glad to believe in
and that we were
has caused us to write this end.
where I have my own sky
but end up looking at the fields below
the harvest, the drought, the spring, the festivals
that you live.
where your day always ends with looking for that bird
who foolishly broke her wings for you,
among the birds who only dream of flying.