the death seems quite far, but the noise is just one door step away. i hide myself among books and shelves, near the window that farthest from the door.
the voice of a man who thinks he is a God’s messenger, soaked blooded hood and holding an executed head; he walked as if God himself.
my swollen hands, my remaining days with the sunlight. it shines, penetrates the cracked vases. how could I save the trapped butterflies with such given condition.
i pretend to sleep, my heart sings thousand songs of hope.
plenty people kneel down , in front of the destroyed bridge. lamenting the past, humming a separation song, whispering cries, screams. if the rain itself cries, how could I not swayed along the stream?
the ticket to come back to the spring, the strangers in unfamiliar place, the faraway loved ones. sewing the bonds, sincere based relationship.
just like pouring the salt into the ocean, those youth dreams, those idealism without wisdom. so I would never come out like this.
when only can depend on heaven’s mercy, i wish i could become the wind once this body decomposed, or burned.