The sky looks great
When the sun is up
And the clouds are late
Spilling bright threads
Doing crochet patterns along the vast blue
Slowly, curling back into a ball of white
Swathing the sun
In rose gold silks

Because of wound, I learned to be strong...
Because of wound, I learned to be able to forgive...
Because of wound, I learned to love pain and imperfection...
   Because....
Every pain gives a lesson...
And every lesson change a person...
Whatever comes, let it come...
What stays, let it stay...
What goes, let it go....

I want to be a poet
Looking for the blooming words that are born from limpid dew likes mantra
The root of this words grows on the valley of secrecy
They won't  be easily swayed even by time
They grow up until becomes ripe by pieces of prayer to keep their eternity
Do you know ?
In the blooming words
There are beautiful fragrant appear from deep meaning
In a field of words, they were born from fertility of compassion and human morality
I really want to write it before time returns to cover his secrets

surprisingly,
silence is an answer, too