We are words,
Made up of consonants and vowels,
Strangled by the synonyms of heartbreaks
Rolled up in fantasies of love,
Which are squeezing us constantly,
Until we are gasping for breath.
We are the kings of darkness
Quenching the thirst of other souls,
With the fire of our heart.
We are flowers,
Which blossomed
On the branches of love in the season of spring;
But fell down
And went deeper into the earth,
In the summer of agony.
We are the stars,
You see above in the sky,
Bright and beautiful;
But from inside,
Just like stars,
We've set ourselves on fire.
We are the old books,
Kept in the last shelf of your book-rack,
Which you never throw,
Because the fragrance of our pages,
Reminds you of your old lover.
We are the pages of your diary,
On which you bleed through your pen
Every time you get hurt.
You use the ink
Made from your smiles and tears,
Your sweat and your blood,
And we hold on to them dearly,
Because your secrets are sacred to us.