War is lost—
But who’s the winner?

The other country?
whose street runs with pride,
but their children still ask
"Why?"

Or

The mothers of their martyred sons?
Those mothers?
Whose tears are falling, unlimited.

Or,

The child?
Whose brothers have been killed in that war?
Those children?
Whose tears are falling, unlimited?

The war has ended,
But who’s the winner?

But the Earth will remember—
The tears of those mothers,
The face of the weeping child.

The graves of those heroic people,
And the history will remember,
Those pride deaths.

The war is finished,
And who's the winner?

No one is the winner?
Everyone is a loser.

I am full—
Yet starving.

I ate a whole meal,
But I don't feel.

I have everything,
But I am not caring.

I have an intelligent mind, a soul,
And it's maddening.

My eyes shines bright,
But with them I fight.

I am full—
Yet starving.

Its night,
And I am starving,
As it blurs my sight.

I wondered,
What am I starving for?

I pondered,
What am I craving for?

And I keep wondering,
And wondering,
And wondering,
And wondering,
And wondering,

And so on~

Who’s the strangest of them all?
Crows are weird,
“What do you mean?”
They remember the face that hurt them,
And never forget it, yet never seek revenge.

Butterflies are weird,
“What do you mean?”
They are colour blind,
Can’t even see their own beautiful faces.

Cats are weird,
“What do you mean?”
They run away from their house,
Which has everything they need.

Dogs are weird,
“What do you mean?”
If you hurt them, They will come back
and would still save you from danger.

Flowers are weird,
“What do you mean?”
They represent immorality, innocence, forgiveness,
Yet still, anyone would pluck it.

Humans are weird,
“What do you mean?”
They would betray anyone,
For just some money.

Who’s the strangest of them all?
I believe humans are,

Somehow every characteristic of animal,
Clings to humans.

If they have everything,
(unlike animals)
Then why do they choose selfishness?

Hard to look in the eyes of others,
Hard to meet a single one.

One can’t—
Love shines bright, too bright to face.
Shy,
(The other might see it in your gaze)

One can’t—
Because all they see is hatred, too much to face
Loathed,
(The other see it on your face)

Baffling,
maddening.

Hard to look in the eyes of others,
Hard to meet a single one.

One can’t—
Because all they see is a rotten soul,
Cursed stain.
(The other leans in, wants to know.)

One can’t,
Because the other is too noble.
Too poor to claim.
(the other scoffs, doesn't want to know your name)

Perplexing,
Bewildering.

Hard to look in the eye of others,
Hard to meet a single one.

One can’t—
Because they respect,
Young,
(The other doesn't.)

One can’t—
Because they are guilty,
Griefed,
(The other is malice.)

Oh—
Dear,
The world is cruel
The world is frayed.

they never tried to understand others—
Yet demanded the world open-handed.

I suspect,
That isn't how things are done.

I know
the world's a weary sphere,
where cruelty thrives,
and injustice lingers.

but not all—
not everyone—
They are as shady as the rest.

some are beautiful—
As beautiful as white tulips.
Purified, innocent, lenient.
Soft in this world that eats its flesh.

Why do selfish people pluck the petals of white tulips?
Why do they color them red?
Why must white tulips' happiness last only for spring?

tell me—
It's a whole minute of bliss,
Is that enough for a human to live?

What's the purpose of a flower?
To grow old is a crime.
To be in their prime is a punishment.

The more beautiful it is,
The more people would be attached to it,
More people would pluck it.

Being pretty is a crime?
Being pleasant is a punishment?

Begging god for a minute to live.
Some would give them to their lovers,
Others would give them to their dead loved one.

But—
Oh.
Weren't they supposed to stay?
In this eerie circle?
To make this liveable.

The scent of petrichor,
The sound of thunder,

In the middle of the night,
I am drinking coffee?

In the middle of the night,
I am drinking coffee.

Perhaps—
In the middle of the night,
A Mother remembers her martyred son.

Perhaps—
In the middle of the night,
Some glasses clink in celebration.

The world is twisted,
The world is baffled.

Some are guilty of their dead daughter.
Some grieve their long-lost son.

Some people hide,
Some people sigh.

Some drink coffee,
Some drink beer.

But,
In the middle of the night,
I am drinking coffee.

Bitter,
Sweet,
And alive.

A thousand people in a street,
A thousand eyes that’ll meet—
A million personalities in a street,

Some to work,
Some to school,
Some to steal,
Some to fool,

Few are drunk,
Few are poor,
Few to lie,
Few to fly.

A thousand sighs in a street,
A thousand sorrows to tolerate,
A million stories incomplete—

Few slept deep
Few wept in a sheet.

Few to study,
Few to work.

A thousand people in a street.
A thousand griefs that repeat,
A million hearts that skip a beat—

Ephemeral things.

The beauty of the sunset is ephemeral,
Yet, it leaves an impression on one’s soul.

The beauty of a rainbow is ephemeral,
Yet, it lingers— a reverie in flight,

Why, then, are beautiful souls so brief?
Do they burn too fiercely, too brightly?
Does the world drain their essence,
Leaving only echo in night?

Are ethereal things not meant to stay?
In this dreadful, weary, sphere?
Was it just a dream?
Was it just like a dream?