Poetry

Like each dropp of your humbleness 
engulfing my urbanite woes; 
the graffiti emerges in tender grace 
to resurrect a windmill. 
 
My spirit, the abode of small birds 
carrying the sunset on its back 
was returning home for the final- 
sleep in the lap of twilight. 
 
When autumn comes and crippled, 
brown leaves start falling, I will 
set the birds free in the winds 
to find their new master. 
 
The nest will weep for the broken song. 
In space between the eyes, lies the negation 
which will not accept the peace of a 
grave. I will follow the wilderness- 
of thoughts again.