The fitful alternations of the rain,
When the chill wind, languid as with pain
Of its own heavy moisture, here and there
Drives through the gray and beamless atmosphere.

a leaf

autumn fall


dried



died.

Like a fragile image
That was long ago cast,
Emerging from the recesses
Of the distant past,

A tiny reflection
That once was a gleam,
Of an old memory
From a cherished dream,

Who would know how
When or where?
Only you and the memories
That still linger there.


September 8, 1966

So many poems
and stories
have gone unwritten
due to fear of not being good enough

Oh come sit,
let me tell you the story of this little child
whom i met not so long ago
and i remember him well in my mind.
his name but, i do not know
i surely did ask, but a smile is what he returned,
his face, he keeps a smile on it
and he smiles at everyone but him,
his eyes said, he had something to tell
but he seemed to speak little.
to me however, he did speak
nodded and smiled and told me things
and must i say, he knew
more than what his innocence should have let him;
forbidden knowledge, he did share with me some things.
but mostly he talked, of the beauty of death
and how dearly he wanted to dance with her,
he told me about a pillow so soft
on which he lays down not to sleep.
he thinks and thinks and thinks, things
he should not
they crawl out and vapourise out on his face
and in his mind he thinks again, "why should i,
live?"
and i dare not speak a lie,
death never seemed so beautiful
before i met this child
and engrossed i was in his words
(he spoke more than he usually does, that day)
but soon realised, i had works to do
before people can tell me what should i do
so i smiled back at the child and walked away from the mirror.

i meet him everyday, this little child,
he smiles and nods and seems fine.

                                                      vargov

thou shalt not live, if not for love
for thy hate perishes a living soul in thee

vargov