When people tell me they want to die
I tell them about
all the beautiful things that lie
I tell them about
The morning sun rays
I tell them about
the colourful flower's blaze
I tell them about
countless sleepless nights
I tell them about New York's city lights
I tell them about never ending impossibilities
I tell them about
the red- orange Autumn leaves
I tell them about
The Winter breeze
I tell them about
Coffee and tea
I tell them about
the starry sky I tell them about
the many attempts to fly
I tell them about lone and greed
I tell them about the future of you and me
YOU ARE READING
Toska.
Poetry"No single word in English renders all the shades of toska. At its deepest and most painful, it is a sensation of great spiritual anguish, often without any specific cause. At less morbid levels it is a dull ache of the soul, a longing with nothing...
