The rain whispers, and the wind answers back
The trees titter their opinions,
and the crickets sing a symphony
The night hums, but the Moon
She is silent

One time,
not that long ago,
I met a man I'd never known,
He was frail and weak and
had white cheeks,
His name I did not know,
It was snowing
and the air was cold,
My mother told me "don't go out"
I did not do as I was told.
Walking in the snow,
I stumbled by this man,
He was buried deep in the snow,
with a folder in his hand,
His voice was faint but,
at least I could hear,
In his voice he was
calling for help, his voice filled with fear.
I called out saying That i was there.
despite being an unsympathetic person I could help but care.
I got all my strength and pulled him out ,
I didn't stop to mess about.
the final pull was a great success.
he composed himself and said "thank you for you kindness."
Just as I was to turn around I remembered the look in his aged eyes.
Something that took year for me to try and disguise.
The look of sadness to the extreme,
the inside torture the inside scream
So I turned around and found him on a seat,
I sat down, the snow chilled my feet.
I said, " I know you're not happy what is wrong?"
"I haven't seen someone I love in very long.
I came here looking but couldn't find,
You know they never left my mind,
but I guess I'll have to live with my mistake,
But my love for them is not fake."
He turned and left after giving me a smile.
I hadn't cared for someone this much in a very long while.
When I went to leave I turned to my right.
And a snow covered folder caught my sight.
Because soon I realised why he felt so bad ,
this folder had everything about me ,
This man was my dad.

bring two cups of tea
to the eye of the storm
and let us drink them
under the cold barrage of voices

let us write a book on the soil
with a preface written by gods
and a dandelion index as boundless as time

let us write about an earth
in which tree leaves are sacred
its rain is the verdict of fluttering
and its children are the blue pellucid of life
and its people prostrate to the skies

let us speak of an earth
on which tulips don't grow*
swallows stay and plant dandelions

let us write a book
in the diameter of dreams
in the length of smile and width of tears
with the weight of seedlings
by the ink
dripping from the lips of spring

— M. Melia