This is my second book of poetry. The first book “A rose in the dark” was coloured in dark shades of solitude and sadness. This one, is even darker. There is a flake of darkness in everyone. You just have to close your eyes… Hope you enjoy reading my poetry.
The air, the rain…
Even though, hungry for air,
tonight I enter your breathless chambers,
though, hungry for rain,
I swim in the fathomless ocean of deserts.
Just few inches above the bottom
I hover, then to land;
here are your salty wounds,
on them I’ve been fed.
To heal them, I live,
to let you soar after I drop,
to give you air, I bleed,
forsake me before the heart stops.
But don’t forget, the air, the rain
in the drought hour,
don’t let oblivion drain
my visage of youth and vigour.
The stone
Irremediable pangs in the dusty drawer
have been asleep for a century now,
once you open that door
they will spread their gory wings,
love. Don’t open the ancient wounds,
don’t wake up the ghouls
of the past tortures, and vain loves,
insignificant faces that flow
through your fingers like sand
but keep the genuine stone in your hand.
The grains – you can toss
into the waves, they’re lost;
or in the wind; all the same -‐
The precious stone is in your hand.
So, leave the pangs in the dusty drawer,
let them be asleep,
leave all the scarred faces behind the door.
You’re finally free.
Place the stone in your heart,
don’t run away from your skin
all the grains of sand have flown
into the oblivious pit.
The sheaths
Put the pain back into the sheaths,
let it rust in a cold dungeon
for that sword has cut the veins
so many times before
in your absence.
The blood that flowed
left your name on the floor
and the heart that beat –
no longer alive; now asleep.
Put the pain back into the sheaths,
let silence veil the tears.
The wind jives among the dead leaves;
a remote light
this remaining darkness kills
Put the pain back into the sheaths,
close the iron gates,
let the heart bleed.
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