The wind mourns a lot love,
someone's sweetheart
from long ago.
The wind doesn't mourn me.
Looking out into the dark night
from my cold and lonely windowsill
at 2 am.
I wait for my soul to wander
and meet the childish me
and remind her of the darkness.
Maybe she can be saved.
The sea calls to me
and yearns for me.
A thousand miles away
I can hear her
wailing for me,
waiting to drag me into her depths.
I used to be a little child,
I didn't play with fire then,
I didn't burn myself.
But I started running
and I found the cage
and the child in me has changed.
I began to dream
and to cut the branches
of my dreams,
to grow new ones
until the forest fires came.
Nights are lonely
without stars.
And my windowsill
is so high up.
If the clouds could catch me
and carry me away
to halcyon dimensions.
And I love life
and I hate life
and the world is spinning so fast.
In the dark and night
I can hear them cry.
Silently.
All the lost souls,
crying,
mourning,
for this tragedy
which is our world.
Where was everyone that night?
I was on my windowsill,
crying for the missed opportunities,
and all the poor, lost souls,
alone at night.
And wasn't I one of them?
I have searched my heart
and my mind
for X.
I haven't found it yet.
I don't differ,
so where do I belong?
2 am silence
is trenching my mind
and my heart seems to stop
for just a second.
I see my last breath.
And then I take another.
I wish for drugs to ease my mind,
but I'd hate to obscure my thoughts.
They need to be clear and sharp,
cutting souls like a knife,
and cutting my own soul
into small pieces.
I wish for eternal sleep
to embrace me
and sing me a lullaby.
I hear the whistling
in my mind as if it was real.
And I know it's from one like me,
sitting at their windowsill
at 2 am,
thinking.
And X is not yet
fully lost,
but no one cares to save it.
It's their own fault.
Injustices take over,
drowning the heart with tears,
cried by a lost
and lonely soul
and the world
becomes a tragedy.
A tragedy
that few get right
and you are forgotten,
lost and scorned,
my dear poet.
Clarity is lot all the time,
suffocated by the world,
their ugly minds
trampling over our fragile meadows
where we grow our dreams.
They lit the forest fires,
arson against the heart.
No way of stopping them.
There is isolation
or a last outburst
of all the rage inside
to mirror the tragedy
of this world
that no one understands.
And at 2 am
I sit on my windowsill
and I stare into
the cold and dark night,
listening to the melancholic whistling
of this fellow soul.
And I wonder -
will I withstand the heat
of blazing forest fires?
