When I lift my pen With the intent to write of you My fingers can go on until They form wrinkles on themselves By this I mean I can go on and on And on And some more
But when I want to write About the things that matter Not just to me, but others like me And others like you About the world About the sky with its infinite emptiness And the moon which cries When it fails to illuminate the land Upon nightfall like the sun does in the day About the waterfalls that push from their edge Millions of drops of water Which fall to their deaths only to Become one with the river And live once again About the birds that fly Above our heads in the sky Aiming their feces onto the scalps of men Failing almost all the time before trying again About the worms that crawl beneath our feet Whispering to the dead The secrets of the ones that live
When I wish to write About all these things and Other things that have nothing to do with you I seem to fail Almost as if I don't want to write of them But why is that so Because the world is just as If not even more beautiful Why is it that my mouth opens up Into a yawn so wide I might as well consider to be tea The Arabian Sea And swallow a quarter of it in One single gulp
I have too many questions A lot of which I don't even Seek an answer for A few on the other hand I'm scared of what their answer might be Let it be I shall simply leave these answer-less questions here Out of ignorance or out of fear And take my leave I shall now go do something That I can do even with my eyes closed I shall now go And fall asleep