Thursday, July 5, 2012


Season of sufferings begins

Son goes to deserts,

What remains now?

She and me

Have to reach the ferry;

Coo as mother

And weigh as father

Tears must be boiled salt

Within the chest

Salt must be collected

And hidden in unseen cellars

Yeah, he is going

On the wings of a bird

Soaring high and fast

He must attain golden thrones

By the pains

Peeling all human bonds

Life is a war

Where hearts are withered

He flies

With a little salt on the twig

Of olive in his beak

He flows to attain something

Beyond love

Life is river flowing

From the hearts squeezed

Nebulae of hard cool

Heaps filling the eyes

He keeps smiling

Amid the piercing thorns;

He that was born

The result of holy rituals

And as the little butterfly;

Hearts go weak,

Who is to soothe?

Now we have only asylums

Or geriatric slums

With urchins as children

And dung as bed;

Go on, thou our son,

Go on to victorious eternity

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