Winter Birds

They’re not gone, they’re just resting,
They flee amicably, they return silently,
They’re the wonder birds.

One went down, heard something?
A false melody,
Maybe an anthem,
Maybe a dream,
Maybe a mime
That was lost
in the woods,

What about the one that stayed
and vanished once in a while?
No sound, no trace,
Just crossing over,
Just slipping through,
Probably trying to live
Or get closer to the skies,

Way far, way low was another one,
Too fast to tell,
Too deep to see,
Too scared to give up,
Attached to the trunk,
Away from everything else,

One came out of nowhere,
Looking for its kind,
Calling for a different time,
Screeching for identity,
Lamenting for years,
Inside and out,

One was still waiting,
Clueless of the change,
Curious with the voices,
Wondered about the withered,
Fascinated by the flakes,
Fell into deep sleep,
Breathed and breathed –

They were circling in the dusk,
Inks on the clouds,
Fading out, one by one,
Goodbye paper kites,

They seemed so free,
So miraculous,
Especially in my dreams.


Skipping the Fall

Be it an abbreviation, be it a cry,
But let it not be a lie,

I’ve frosted some aches,
I’ve feigned some lines,
Nothing is darker than
Fears inside,

Towards the walls,
Gasping for more
Signs and
Minding Nothing,

There was madness
Spread in jest,
What is this
Pathetic sight?

I fall apart,
I barely stand,
Rising is menacing,
Almost like dying,

Words can fly away
But they always
Come back –
Turn around,

Tell me about
Your wounds,
Your lies,
Your endless tries,
What tore you apart,
What you lost, 

What you cared,
What you sought,
Meant more than –
Always moving
Forward and not
Thinking behind,
Uneven ratios,
Flat chords, 

That’s enough,
Familiar steps
Extend the clouds,
Waiver the gap,

Wave the rest,
Wave them good night.


Toss it in the street,
Throw it in the river,
Leave it to the sky,

Crash, destroy, trample
Whatever you do,
It’ll appear again –

Listen to it quietly,
Mend it with your voice,
Find it to the core

Of your will,
Stains will grow,
So does strength,

Cry if you may,
Try if you must,
Live and live more if you will,

Whenever you remember,
Coarse strings
Always synthesize

Fair bubbles
To the mellow wisp.
Hinting for yearnings,

The wind whispers:
‘Run for the tide’
The dress disappears,

Yet the wrinkle stays
In the fate of sand.

Flood Lines

Territory for years is granted,
Leeway for crashes is sorted,
Temperature is made adaptable,
Assumptions are daily exercises,
What on earth is going through their minds, I wonder?
Dangerous exhibitions are stamped,
Any possible extinguishment of the circle is forgotten,
The rides are fairly wounded and confined,
Would they be able to find out the shows are a hoax
Or would they be offended by the lights

that have always been there, like the sky?
Riddles are ensured to be manipulative,
As writers are claimed to be creatively insane,
Never mind how famous they are,
Their words are always mingled

with wooden crates and unnamed sacks,
Confusions occur mildly in the centre,
No one thinks they’re right or wrong,
But blames anyone who opposes them,
A grand hobby for the rising successors,

Temporary whistles scald the streets,
Where furrows are born and being painted over,
Scars are seen as wise for their sacrifices
Of facing the unexpected unknown,
They become the privileged and warriors.
Though there will be an upside down,
By the experienced or inexperienced tellers,
Synthesizing their own garments and fortunes,
Marking and disapproving fallacies at the same time,
I don’t know whether it’s a conscious decision or not.
The rooms are just created in a blink,
Completed with furniture and others in seconds,
Designed bountifully with cheap prices,
But what about the addresses of the tenants
That are hardly known or cared?

Living becomes an excuse, not a reason,
For tides would always arrive,
No matter where you are,
And we think to protect ourselves
by having them shunned away
as we form our confined circles,
With tentative views of rivers,
We thwart the torrent,
But still we are

Those Artists

I’m drawn to people
who think a lot
and put salient effort
in describing their journey,
whether in words,
pictures, paintings, melodies
and thoughts.

Those people
who may not call themselves
as artists,
but they are
the ones
who create art,

I feel deeply
connected to them
as they share their stories
that some
may have glanced,
passed by,
and not noticed
their struggles,
their restless hearts.

Those street artists,
they have it hard,
they’d rather crawl
than die
a millionaire forever,