To me she is a poem
Only heard from other people
Who love tenderly and quietly
She represents an island of secrets
A forest of beauty and rarity
To me she is a prose
Spoken in quiet Sunday afternoons
As the church bells ring
And the namaj is read aloud
Somewhere among the pale hills
She seeps into the sky
Like a fairy of an old age
Narrating lores of misfortune
Where the princess saves the Prince
Yet she is still a weak girl in society
She talks about love among aphordites
Watching a million sunsets all alone
Hoping to see dead birds fall one day
From the sky like the bombs of the war
Morever she is everything in one
A sad elegy and a happy ending
Whatver she chooses to become
YOU ARE READING
Moth House
PoesíaCorpses of words which had been dead for a long time. Where Home eats her own existence and memories float like dust in the air, with dangerous nostalgia
