We all have something to praise,
A god, a person, an object.

He always told me he praised the sun.

Soon,
I became his sun.

I never understood when he said I’m the light of his life.
Because to me,
He was the sun.

He brought warmth to everyone he passed.

And then I looked inside him, and was shocked.

The sun that had always shone so bright was dim and collapsing in on itself.
It felt like looking in a mirror.

At that moment,
I finally understood,

That I truly am his sun,
And he is mine.

Some old men,
Slender, suspected, sequestered,
Stand systematically, silently,
And still smile
At the cuddling of the wind.

In my yard,
I speak to them,
And they teach me
To maintain my nature.

Ghosts are ghosts, not men.

Je parle dans le langage de l'amour, mais ces mots me semblent toujours comme du poison couvrant ma langue

                                                    ~~~

­Never the romantic, Never the loving

I speak in the language of love, but these words always seem to me like poison covering my tongue