Often truth is just an unstructured tale
that quietly seeps into the soul
where then poetry just seems
an undesirable ornament
Truth stays, like fragment of a salty summer breeze
rhyming the wind chimes of your name
on my window.
I walk among the shadows
like a silent visitor to the land of subtlety.
Where poetry is alien and we sleep within the luxury of a story, our story.
A moment spent in yearning is all what poetry entails
while the miracle of banal stories
walks through the rain forests of hope.
Where I call your name like a hymn of longing
erasing in a pause the distances of voices, oceans and continents
In the nest of your name
lies the comfort of home.
As all the cliched verses of your name
on my night sky stand alone
like metaphors for your eyes,
a sidereal bird in between river and the moon.
I see you as distinct as a white cloud in blue sky.
And for those moments I unlearn to think of you
until the air and the sky conspires me to come back.
And what remains
is a story,
and your name.