A bird flying
Is a flight in self.

Motion.

It is a movement
In self and
Inward.

It is a cry, too.

I hunt the sound.
I shoot its wing.
I feel that
The air fractures.
Immediately.
The flight is fractured.

I still love you.
For sure, for sure, I still love you.
The feeling slips
In the place,
From where the white bird fell

From the moment
To the eternity.

In that place,
My thought,
Bears your name

And remains

As a red spot on the
Blue sky,
A spot, which could be white.

Forever.

Between eyelids,
Only pain
Can be crushed,
Continuously,
That pain taking another pain
From the agony of death
To death.

Between saints, only
God has
Perfect feelings.
He has our feelings, too.

Imperfect.

We try
To touch Him.