Des mots comme des fleurs,

Tu te plante dans mes archives,

Dans mon jardin

Celui qui t’appartient

As clouds got darker

Winds howled a bit louder

I found myself relating

With a sense of pugnacity

To the instability I could discern

The trees wept for the fallen leaves

Like I did for the fading part of me

I often blame myself

for the iniquity of others.

If they had abrasively grazed

the fragile strings which hold me together

then it is because I, and only I

have given them the thought

that wounds do heal in the end

but scars are often invisible

and I am still hurting.

I spill out not only ink onto the paper...
but my soul,
my deepest fears,
a few hopes and dreams,
but also some lost things.

I thought I didn’t need metaphors to describe you

But I can’t help but notice the aspects of all blooming life

Converging and absolutely intertwined

with your sublime being

You are my world

I want to write poems about the world

print them on sheets,

wrap them around me,

so that I could immerse myself in its wonders

trace its iridescent imperfections

and marvel at the enormity of this reality.

Heat up whatever cold I have inside,

Your warmth answers my prayers

and despite my numbness

I can’t deny that you make me feel something special