Was it a spectacle—filmed the whole incident? / Why didn’t you withstand? / Why didn’t you try to desist?
Oh that angelic call, yet I cannot respond. I cannot open my mouth in fear of the burning pain overpowering my senses.
Come, if you may, with swords or guns. Remember, I won’t cry and run; I will rise from the depths of the land.
In the chilly winter night as I walked past the forest, I heard a feeble crying of a baby. I shivered in my warm clothes.
Far away from the crowd, far from the glaring chaos; out of the blaring car horns, out of the shrieks of loneliness, out of all the madness that surrounds; Out of the city, out of the cacophony I chose to go and find solace.
Was it a spectacle—filmed the whole incident? / Why didn’t you withstand? / Why didn’t you try to desist?
Oh that angelic call, yet I cannot respond. I cannot open my mouth in fear of the burning pain overpowering my senses.
She stands in front of the canvas and stares.
Come, if you may, with swords or guns. Remember, I won’t cry and run; I will rise from the depths of the land.
A strange experience by the sea-shore.
A poem about the modern way of life
In the chilly winter night as I walked past the forest, I heard a feeble crying of a baby. I shivered in my warm clothes.
Far away from the crowd, far from the glaring chaos; out of the blaring car horns, out of the shrieks of loneliness, out of all the madness that surrounds; Out of the city, out of the cacophony I chose to go and find solace.
I roll and roll and roll, Till I reach my desired goal. The branches grow forth, Till my body aches and is sore. My body turns old.
She lies on the bed, a broken canvas. Fragments and splinters of an old frame, Faded colors of painted priceless picture, Greys and white, crooked dark veins, wrinkled paper skin. Frames abound on the wall’s fortress,
