His curls — a heavy chain,
like the noose of a gallows.
Those tresses of his are deadly,
as if he has stolen
the softness of the sky…
As if for countless nights
he gathered the darkness
and folded it gently into himself.
Who knows how many eyes
he has taken the life from.
Swaying, swaying —
Those knows well how to pull every focus away.
And when those locks,
after playing with the wind,
fall across his forehead,
“Those who look at him end up celebrating a sweet ceremony of their own death.”
If he calls it beauty,
I call it chaos.
Mar 23
Mar 23, 2026 at 2:27 AM UTC
Millions of libraries,
millions of novels,
millions of songs,
millions of poems
Yet millions upon millions of philosophies—
failed
to explain what love truly is.
But in a single moment with you,
revealed to me
the entire world of love.
Mar 22
Mar 22, 2026 at 9:50 AM UTC