Was it soAn old movieI don't knowWas he the HeroWas I the heroineWas it soAn old movieI don't knowWas there any cuts any takesWas there any flied of sunflowersWas it soAn old movieI don't knowMay be it was
Feeling are likeBlack paperNo one knows what todo with itAnd want to do somethingthat's complicatedThen let it stayBlackThat seems moreFreshThan the the written paperBecause written papers areexpectationsAnd expectations are not feelingSo, it's better to beBlank paper
We were hidden in small umbrellaThe rain was touching ousThe wind was pulling ourUmbrellaWe hold the umbrellaBought it near ousWe both got near each otherWe looked at our faceAnd the rain stoppedThe red orange skyWhen the sun set had a whileWe just foundEachother in anDark red umbrella
A bright morningI opened my doorDidn't found anyoneBut just a red roseVery lonely and aloneI took it to my roomWondering who kept it thereAssuming the colourDark redRed as bloodDeep as oceanGentle as touchPure as loveIt doesn't matter who kept itOnly matters was loveMay be a day will come
THEY have taken the gable from the roof of clayOn the long swede pile. They have let in the sunTo the white and gold and purple of curled frondsUnsunned. It is a sight more tender-gorgeousAt the wood-corner where Winter moans and dripsThan when, in the Valley of the Tombs of Kings,A boy crawls down into a Pharaoh's tombAnd, first of Christian men, beholds the mummy,God and monkey, chariot and throne and vase,Blue pottery, alabaster, and gold.But dreamless long-dead Amen-hotep lies.This is a dream of Winter, sweet as Spring.
Here is the soundless cypress on the lawn :It listens, listens. Taller trees beyondListen. The moon at the unruffled pondStares. And you sing, you sing.That star-enchanted song falls through the airFrom lawn to lawn down terraces of sound,Darts in white arrows on the shadowed ground ;While all the night you sing.My dreams are flowers to which you are a bee,As all night long I listen, and my brainReceives your song, then loses it againIn moonlight on the lawn.Now is your voice a marble high and white,Then like a mist on fields of paradise ;Now is a raging fire, then is like ice,Then breaks, and it is dawn.
I shall return again; I shall returnTo laugh and love and watch with wonder-eyesAt golden noon the forest fires burn,Wafting their blue-black smoke to sapphire skies.I shall return to loiter by the streamsThat bathe the brown blades of the bending grasses,And realize once more my thousand dreamsOf waters rushing down the mountain passes.I shall return to hear the fiddle and fifeOf village dances, dear delicious tunesThat stir the hidden depths of native life,Stray melodies of dim remembered runes.I shall return, I shall return again,To ease my mind of long, long years of pain.