Today it will rain once again,
In the windows of cloudy eyes,
Where I and you unclearly exist,
On the lotted shores of memory.

Stoic birds wading upon waves,
That grieve and go, riding, broke,
An endless sweeping of sorrows,
Carried by moans on the wind.

In the windows of our new eyes
There was, then, true gleaming
And we were *****, by seasides,
Among sparkles of stars and sun.

The island so far away was here,
Perfect, bright, cast of nowadays,
Land only love in whisper knows
O, by the graceful seasides only.

Now, dry, shelled and castaway,
The wind is shrilling its long keen
And the cradle bones of our love
Lie still, asleep in sinking sands.

I gave up my pen,
And tore all my dreams.
Poetry never was my friend
Thus my journey as poet, here ends.


- qyf

Blessed am I to dwell where travellers roam,
weary on their aching feet
they sit here, sand between toes, sunburnt scalp and ice-cream hands.

Where lit fires warm content bones, sheltered from storms beyond the panes.
But our storms are never ugly here,
rain dances bout' the cliffs, wind shaking woods, sky full of bruise coloured clouds.

Not neat,
this land is not of order, she is made of wilder stuff;
of 'untamed'- of 'free',
of rolling land and sprawling wood.
Not neat, no, but peace.

the house next door makes me
sad.
both man and wife rise early and
go to work.
they arrive home in early evening.
they have a young boy and a girl.
by 9 p.m. all the lights in the house
are out.
the next morning both man and
wife rise early again and go to
work.
they return in early evening.
By 9 p.m. all the lights are
out.

the house next door makes me
sad.
the people are nice people, I
like them.

but I feel them drowning.
and I can't save them.

they are surviving.
they are not
homeless.

but the price is
terrible.

sometimes during the day
I will look at the house
and the house will look at
me
and the house will
weep, yes, it does, I
feel it.