A little peace
within the last hours of the almost bygone day
a little silence
between the days
so that the nascent yesterday does not get in the past
and tomorrow is lived for today

I wish to write a poem out of tears.
I wish to write a poem out of laughter.
I wish to write a poem out of sorrow and rejection.
I wish to write a poem out of the good times no longer here.
I wish to write words out of the misery, out of the agony that millions of children live through everyday.
Whether they're missing, abused, kidnapped, sold, ran away, beaten every day, carved in their leaders words.
I wish to write poems made out of stars.
Faintly watching us slowly turn to them every night.
I wish to write a poem that every human, every creature, every animal, every creature can understand.
I wish to write poems with no words.
As the most profound words say the least.
I wish to write a poem made of blood, tears, sweat, skin, hair, teeth.
I wish to write a poem made of broken trees, torn apart to make buildings bigger.
I wish to write a poem out of the soul of those who are now extinct.
I wish to write a poem that can touch a person's heart.
Sadly without these miseries.
How are we ever to know what happiness really is?

The night is silent,
The cool breeze passes through each alley and street,
The stars try to keep their heavy eyes open in their drowsiness,
And the moon has covered herself with the thick blanket of clouds.

I wish I could sing you a lullaby or tell you a story to help you fall asleep,
However the rain and the kind crickets are already doing that for us,

I wish you a safe and sound journey to the world of dreams,
Goodnight my friend.

Wandered here and there
But not to find anywhere
Those lovely days
When I heard the cuckoo’s call
For which I gave a reply,
He kept on cooing over and over
That raised my frenzy and joy.

Lovely were those days
When I played on the dew laced leaves
And blushed the little blooms in glee
And in a rush to catch the butterflies
That took the flowers' daily surprise.

What lovely days were they,
When I played with the chatterry rain
That slid down the roof like shiny pearls
And filled my little hands with joy
To splash on my brother’s face
Who made me cry for what I did.

Will I ever get back those days
When I sailed my paper boat
In the little puddle in my yard
And had a fight with my brother
For plunging it before it reached ashore.

I wish if I could get back in a lovely trail
Alike the little moon high up in the sky
To the days foregone where I had it all
Of love, care and those naughty fights
That still linger on so close to heart
And never to part those lovely days again.

I feel like I must confess,
I owe it to my readers...

To tell you the truth,
I never really know what to write about,
I could write about a summer day,
Or autumn and it's dismay,
I could paint the colours of spring,
Or the bride who lost her ring,
I could write about the lovelorn youth
Or the pain that laughs can sooth,
I could tell tales about the moon,
Or the serpent behind the dune,
Perhaps I'd write about the sky,
Or about wanting to cry.

In all honesty I don't know what to write about,
I could write about not knowing what to write about,
But I just close my eyes and let the hand write what it will,
I trust the pen,
I trust the hand,
I trust my readers' taste :)

Sky shines a pinkish hue
The wind hums a lonely tune
Dusk is cold