The velvet cover of the book
Where I enclosed my soul
Entangled on the hard pages
I painted the lines
When the heart whispered.

I poured my soul
Like I poured honey in my tea
Yesterday evening.

It flew out and I closed the book
To hold it against my chest.
To immerse it with the teardrops.
To hate the lines and love the velvet.

There was no beginning
And the end had not even started.
But I had so much to say
I could not keep it this way.

There was love in too many lines
The aim of the world
And the sugar of the universe.
When I heard the whisper of my heart.

I put off the candle
To see the stars in my soul.
And search for the love
Between the Betelgeuse and Bellatrix.

I hoped that he would love me,
And he has kissed my mouth,
But I am like a stricken bird
That cannot reach the south.

For tho’ I know he loves me,
To-night my heart is sad;
His kiss was not so wonderful
As all the dreams I had.

People die.
But their stories live on in the hearts of those
who had loved them.
Like the fire which has burned out.
But the ashes still remaining.

The memories wiped out
after years pass by,
Like the ashes swept
Away by the wind.

Yet the trees, the sky, the sun,
They all remain witness
to the life that was once lived
to the laughter and tears it shed.

Immortal therefore to nature,
Is the fickle human soul,
It lives on forever,
Witnessed by the sun, moon and stars-though ages may roll.