Thursday, January 27, 2011

Hiding place.

The paradise flower spils its dust.
The sound of the organ carries it away.
Where I used to go hide,
there is water, there is tide.

The humming bird stays in the same place.
The wind under its wings.
I think I played the guitar once,
carressing the strings.

The seagull follows the fisherman.
Its song is a cry.
I was reciting too.
Nobody understood.

I'm running up the waterfall.
Swimming against the stream.
Like a salmon, going back to where I was born.
Not whole, not torn.

I hope my transending will be to heaven.
I hope God recognizes me,
when I go back to the place where I used to hide.

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