~
he who is a little ahead of his time
whose treasures of the words random
romanticism is in the blood, marrow,
his mood is as the autumn clouds
he who has lost his path within path
drowning with dreams, sunk you within dreams
again holds thousands of lost dreams
fly the colorful kites in the blue sky
he who hide within himself
**** in his naked poetry
In forms humorous,harmonic
as a portrait of the Vincent's starry night
he is a pilgrim who has lost himself within spirituality
holds everything with the love
who is for everybody so everybody is for him
But in fact there is nothing in all his
he who is simple straight as the waterfall
when in complex grew hard stone
who broke rules for building rules,
knows himself within the other life
whose words never be end
again he moves on and on
who laughs in the moonlight
again swept in pain without thinking any gain
who looks the life
as a grain of sand
and see the sign of love
in the footprint of a fossil
he who is a poet -
~
Jun 26, 2015
Jun 26, 2015 at 3:05 PM UTC
~
he who is a little ahead of his time
whose treasures of the words random
romanticism is in the blood, marrow,
his mood is as the autumn clouds
he who has lost his path within path
drowning with dreams, sunk you within dreams
again holds thousands of lost dreams
fly the colorful kites in the blue sky
he who hide within himself
**** in his naked poetry
In forms humorous,harmonic
as a portrait of the Vincent's starry night
he is a pilgrim who has lost himself within spirituality
holds everything with the love
who is for everybody so everybody is for him
But in fact there is nothing in all his
he who is simple straight as the waterfall
when in complex grew hard stone
who broke rules for building rules,
knows himself within the other life
whose words never be end
again he moves on and on
who laughs in the moonlight
again swept in pain without thinking any gain
who looks the life
as a grain of sand
and see the sign of love
in the footprint of a fossil
he who is a poet -
~
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