"clapping" poems
my town
where wild flowers grow
between tram tracks.
there was a time when
it was hardly morning,
no bridge into daylight.
walls had ears,
neighbors had eyes
whispering behind the curtains
there was an emptiness in the guts
of the city
and poetry locked in the drawers,
Borges was read under the blankets
while Dostoievski was a comforter:
demons were embedded.
yeah, people were clapping and smiling
watching the nub of history, numb
they had a life to live,
what can you say?
one day the radio
burst on in the streets
some were shivering in the attic
"we are free", they said
"we are free",
came the echo in trance
"shhhhh"! said others,
let us wipe the blood
don't disturb the sacrificed
so we can sleep
without dreams
it's Thursday in my town
streets are weary
and our souls are
slowly expanding
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 9:25 AM UTC
let it not be confused
let no one else's name
ring throughout these sentences
let this be a hatchet
let me put this to rest
this is not a test
i don't want to think
about shipwrecks anymore
i am tired of folding apologies
into origami birds
and placing them
at the headstones to your tantrums
this is not is not geology class
these are promises
written on razorblades
*& if you are getting choked up
then maybe you should be*
maybe we should be buried
with our telescopes face down
my mouth is full of sorry
all for being honest
we are falling out of orbit
we are burning bystanders
so cast away your callous condolences
because no one is clapping
in this waist deep water
this is not a baptism
so do not tell strangers
that this was a chance to drown
any differently
i am not a catalogue
of constellations you cannot name
this is not mythology
so stop believing your horoscope
i am not a wishing well
i am just a wall for you
to paint post nuclear fallout & antonyms for catharsis on
we destroy the things
that are not ours-
the wanton ways
we embody wrecking *****
and then cry over the rubble
this is not a heap or a mosaic
this is leaping
off a thousand story building
with no one to catch you
at the bottom & maybe
that's why some quiet moments
are so fragile, maybe that's why butterflies have mimicry
your words are black powder
and poetry is your musketry
i guess that makes me your blindfold
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 11:21 PM UTC
there was a little hamster he just loved trapeze
flying through the air flying with such ease
so he joined the circus at the local show
climbed on the trapeze so he could have a go
climbed up to the top that was very high
now it was time for hamster to see if could fly
he jumped on the swing swinging to and fro
people they all loved him he gave there hearts aglow
they all started clapping and shouted out for more
a hamster on trapeze they had never seen before
Feb 2, 2014
Feb 2, 2014 at 1:00 PM UTC
I hear the rhythmic clapping
And feel the pounding of feet on the ground
As dust swirls and dances around
While I sit facing the sun
In all her divine beauty.
Encased in the wood of the red gum tree,
I am at peace.
Burnum carves my totem outside
Surrounded by holy men,
Loved ones and ancestors.
This is my signifier and protection.
I am Miki the moon
Recently returned to my tribe
Heeding the call of the spirits.
My people mourn deeply
But know I will come again
To be at one with them,
First I must commune with the great creator
Rainbow spirit of the sky
For now is the time for dreaming.
Mar 11, 2018
Mar 11, 2018 at 1:21 AM UTC
Lithe, pharmaceutical muscles regulating microfiber hairs
Draw from the primitive neglect and sin
A clarinet changes the chemistry of champagne
Inside Humanity again
A stock infection of planets and galaxies
and their debris
Small enough to be e coli
and atomic dreams
Beading with the warmth of breath, persisting,
Naming dragons and archers in the infinity,
The cocktails brew people at the seams
Their sentences clapping the breeze
Into a day, or a season,
or her hand leading
Sep 5, 2018
Sep 5, 2018 at 9:50 AM UTC
The rooster sings to the sun,
answering the call is the light that embraces all.
All at once the birds sing their own song.
Awaken by mother's sweet voice.
"It's time to go" she says.
She hands me a green cubeta con maiz.
The corn's color is purple and white instantly
I fall in love with its kind
The cold blue morning gives me chills.
I carry the bucket to my grandmother's house.
With her mandil and her braided hair,
she sits by the comal making tortillas.
"Good morning abueltia" with a smile on my face.
"Good morning m'ija" she replies.
I keep walking carrying the heavy bucket.
A small room next to a store crowded with senoras.
Their rebozos around their heads and arms and buckets in hand.
I feel so small so young but inside I'm proud.
I wait in line as I greet and make small talk.
These ladies have the nicest smiles.
My turn, I grab my cubeta and proceed to the molino.
My arms are too little.
A lady approaches and helps me load the molino.
I watch in awe as the grains turn in masa.
I bend down and collect it.
"En una bolita" the lady tells me to shape it.
I nod and continue to make it.
Gray like the color of my grandma's hair.
soft like my mother's hand.
I fill the bucket with the masa.
I thank las senoras and head back to mi casa.
I hand the bucket to my mom who was milking la vaca.
She starts the comal and gets the cal.
Her hands slapping the masa like she was clapping.
Perfect big round warm tortillas.
I was a little girl that helped her make them.
A little girl that still remembers.
Apr 17, 2015
Apr 17, 2015 at 5:24 AM UTC
Strip of fabric folded
Darkening the day
So that you not see
Desire radiating
*** cherry red
Soft hands clapping
Flushing the cheeks
And then you smile
I want to be your teeth
So that your tongue
Is constantly touching
Feeling and licking
Black cat arched back
Fingers arachnid running
Descending and deliberate
I want to be your teeth
Jun 2, 2021
Jun 2, 2021 at 4:18 PM UTC
Remember, that chaos first was a primordial deity,
Chaos; the nothingness from which all else sprang
headfirst and heartfelt,
half-naked and handsome,
hook, line and... halibut.
All of this,
every measurable moment,
every particle,
every object set forth in motion
sprang from a void so harmoniously
as if the absence of everything was kissed
sudden
by the presence of something.
Often depicted with wings, a bow, and a quiver of arrows,
Cupid, son of Venus - goddess of love,
son of Mercury - god of trade,
his story,
almost identical in Greek and in Roman
mythology,
his story, about a couple of gods
who seem so inherently human by nature,
jolted by jealousy,
dumbstruck by beauty,
hellbent on immortality,
his story has been hallmarked
as red hot velvet rose petal fine wine
and symmetrical hearts.
Wrapped in tin foil red ribbons
bitter-sweetly sugarcoated
dipped in thin layer of chocolate
taste-tested and lover approved.
Remember that scene in Hook
where Tinkerbell leaves her footprints on Peter's chest,
well that's you and that's me--
touch me where my heart beats
because I don't ever wanna be a lost boy.
I wanna grow up like a good bedtime story
with morals
and purpose,
I wanna have meaning.
You might say that Cupid found himself.
You might say that Psyche found her soul.
You might say that Tinkerbell was just faking it--
with the clapping.
Truth is, we can never know the whole story--
the complete truth.
Problem is, we think we can
and act like we do.
So the only time we mean what we say
is the first time we say it,
every utterance thereafter is just an attempt
at recreating a moment.
I love you
is a paraphrase
that deserves three separate ellipses
because there's a lot left unsaid.
I (distinctively remember shadow-boxing with)
love (against a star-dotted sky anchored to a
moonlight so vibrant it can only be compared to)
you (and your tidal waves).
And that's where I fell
headfirst and handsome.
I (was punched-drunk by a kiss so breathless
that it spiked my dopamine to a volume
that can only be described as) love
(in that every time my neurotransmitters feel) you
(they spin themselves dizzy and dance to your science).
There was a moment in the absence of everything
when I was kissed silent by the presence of something.
Hold me to your breastplate.
I don't ever wanna go back to the void.
02/09/2010
Feb 14, 2012
Feb 14, 2012 at 2:03 PM UTC
Feeling unattractive
I blame the mirror
Feeling my voice is cracking
I blame the radio
Feeling no one is clapping
I blame the show
Feeling the weakness
I blame your sweetness
Feeling like I'm falling
I blame boys
Feeling like lost in love
You're the one I blame
Feeling like a trash
I blame society
Feeling empty
I blame happy people
Feeling uncompleted
I blame lovers
Feeling like no one is right
Feeling like I'm unwelcomed
Feeling super suicidal
I don't blame the blade
I blame myself
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 10:15 AM UTC
in the middle of nirvana, ashima wakes up
she doesn't know how she reached this sphere
full of silver lights and black silhouettes
everyone she knows seems to be present
greyly shimmering leaflets are floating
through the air, gently, like mist
and red fireflies are clapping their wings
the crowd of shadows is starting to sing:
"ashima, you have come a long way to us
we are the voices of nirvana, listen
nirvana is the deep core of your soul
the land of your most secret wishes
sometimes, in your dreams, you reach out
when you are waiting for a train and the
rays of the sun are reflecting your thoughts
you never find us but we know where you are
you may call us your wishes, we belong to you
as **** as branko and your mom do
are you the imitation of your dreams, ashima?
or do your dreams imitate you, our girl?
certainly, you will become the thing you dread
we know that you took revenge recently
when you were slashing the pedophile's throat
as his blood was slowly flowing into the sheets"
in the middle of her apartment, ashima wakes up
she becomes aware of a crinkled and dark leaflet
it is more than twenty years old, informing about
something that ashima can not read anymore
the letters on the leaflet have become dust
ashima is taking a deep breath and sighs
her pitbull branko is strolling towards her
his wet tongue, ashima thinks, feels cute
Jan 30, 2021
Jan 30, 2021 at 11:04 AM UTC
The Aces check their sleeves,
Hearts rippling across the breeze.
The Queen arises
Slowly,
Torn dress ripped at the knees.
The Jack saw his fill
And quickly took his leave.
Stood trembling in a doorway,
Mind struggling to believe...
The King was an alcoholic,
It was widely known to be so,
Each eve he would sit solemn,
Wine in hand and sword on show,
Clapping to the Jokers' japes
As he danced and sang
About love and fate.
But how was the King to know?
Not two rooms away
His wife had lain,
With a smile and a *****
Creating a cuckold and a fool...
The Jack had had enough
And promptly marched
To the throne room.
Armed with only knowledge,
Unleashes inevitable typhoon.
The winds will rise,
This house shall succumb,
Imploding inwards
Till the house is done.
And all that remains
Among ash and decay,
Broken hearts and broken spades,
Is the Jokers last laugh.
A mockingbirds call as daylight fades.
May 21, 2013
May 21, 2013 at 8:12 PM UTC
I want my cake and ice cream too.
Who wants to blow out a candle?
When there is no food.
I wants to do the things that kids usually do.
Blow out the candles and spread ferms too.
Hey, we kids.
And you know they assisting me too.
Camera snapping.
Kids clapping.
Cause the ice cream and cake is about to be cut.
While adults are playfully laughing.
Sep 24, 2012
Sep 24, 2012 at 9:19 AM UTC
*i think, you should stop going to italy, for one, oh **** me, keep going on hedonist piss-fuck fests to places like mallorca, but stop going to italy, you're making my stomach ache from laughter, with what you come back with, the so-called "innovations"; somehow i'd just poach my cauliflower, and drizzle it with fried breadcrumbs, and serve it as a side-dish to fried eggs (2), and some tatties; for goodness sake, even cauliflower cream soup makes more sense, garnished with some fried chorizo!*
first it was avocado on toast...
who the **** puts avocado on bread?
i can imagine putting it in pasta...
but on bread?
hey, what the **** does
the acronym f.a.d. mean?
i don't know, and i won't google it...
o.k. avocado on toast...
nothing near guacamole,
but fair enough...
but what i discovered... pushes
the button where i turn into a fox laughter
(fuchslachen) -
i couldn't stop...
you can find it in the weekend
section of the saturday times newspaper...
written by nicola m.
cauliflower and mozzarella pizza...
you have to be ******** me...
cauliflower? on pizza?
one of my housemates at university told
me an anecdote:
i was in a restaurant once,
and asked for a pizza with no cheese...
he continued:
and then the head chef came out and
asked me... are you, insane?!
a bit like: bread... but no butter?
and i thought i was insane eating a watermelon
today, whole,
the red pulp, and the outer layers including
the skin included, allowing myself
a gorilla imitation cameo gimmick...
but i thought i was mad...
but there's avocado on toast...
and now... cauliflower on pizza...
it's a ******* side-dish!
wait, don't tell me... you're going to put
some potatoes onto the pizza the next frizz
comes along... right?
how about beetroot?
thankfully, if i have some
wacky ideas in terms of culinary escapades,
they happen, drunk, after 12a.m.,
and i'm the scientist, and the experimental rabbit
2-in-1...
a newspaper column?
apparently, you get one, putting avocado
on toast...
or cauliflower on a pi-zzzzz-ah...
to be honest, even though i haven't tried it,
grilled aubergines on a pizza could work...
the toast? marmite and cheddar...
english people should stop glorifying holidays
in italy... they're ****** cooks...
an italian would just look at
a pizza with cauliflower and say: cosa?
i'd suggest heading to scotland first,
and picking up the vibes from some haggis.
**** me...
avocado on toast...
caulifower on a pizza?!
now i can die happy, 'appy,
clapping: encore!
Jun 10, 2017
Jun 10, 2017 at 2:54 PM UTC
Little girls with their hair in pig tails
old men chatting away over a game of cards
the endless clapping of heels on concrete
madness
business men in suits and ties
faces melding to iPhones
catholic priests ******* kids
they know his name
danger in a lightning flashed smile
panic in a thunder clapped laugh
they know his name
but it never leaves their tongues
he dances in the gaps of their teeth
and chips away at our heart strings
incessant whispers in our ears
telling us what we want
what we need
he stands off in the shadowed corners
of every forgotten room
in every one time family home
as we watch our worlds
crumble around us
if Christ lives inside of all
then he has one hell of a roommate
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 11:05 AM UTC
Are you a tourist or
A volcanologist my dear?
With a painful joy
To a live volcano getting near,
Do you want to pay homage
To earth's nadir
Conscious that beneath a sea level
A sweltering heat you can bear?
Then to Erta Ale come you not why
Found under Ethiopia's sky?
With a style jumping high,
Hitting the ground
Beating drums, on their waists,
Sabres tied around
Afro men along with braided women,
With butter greased hair,
The latter ululating and clapping
In a row facing each other
Chant a love song
“My feeling for you is strong!”
The male herd camel,
While women babysit,prepare food
And make short huts
With tiny malleable wood.
Also dot the mirage-forming sand
Huts grand.
Are you a tourist my dear
Eager to see about
Out of the ordinary you heard
Say about multicolored magma
Volcano's dust,
Disgorged out of earth's crust?
Do you want to see a scenery
You have not seen
Since you were born,
How in a motley garment
Mother nature itself
Likes to adorn
Come then to Ethiopia,
Located in Africa's horn?
Visit Erta Ale ,
On earth
To run away from earth
Enjoying its hearth.
You will witness
The extraction of salt
In a volcano-formed fault.///
Oct 15, 2018
Oct 15, 2018 at 3:30 AM UTC
Island can't stop sliding
even when dull pencils
stuck in sand push back
strong, even when your
toes are curling inward
and holding on tight
The sunburn highway is
crowded today and we're
stuck in traffic, caught
behind a particularly
thick cloud, compounding
beach breezes and midday
shivering beneath towels
With sweaty hands clapping
beat and fast punches, the
overnight foliage blooms
and dies, laughing hard
in the bright room with no doors
Jul 20, 2014
Jul 20, 2014 at 4:28 PM UTC
Raindrops ricochet off my umbrella, sounding like muffled applause; Mother Nature is clapping, amused by the fact that people are hiding from her marvelous creation.
~~a.s.f.
Feb 19, 2014
Feb 19, 2014 at 7:01 PM UTC
Signals cross dissonant chills along the surface of my skin,
Prickled hair rises up under the brush of my touch.
Warm sensation waves attention
as flags fly high warning shots into the sky.
My eyes wide shut abruptly
in case the wind blows particulate
along the curving arch of my vision,
flipped back open upon collision,
batting down waterfalls in between curtain calls
as clapping hands of a broad audience
pass the winning touchdown play onto poppy seed fields.
My Love runs long and deep like the river through lost canyons,
hiding unknown along the moist horizon of dew drop mornings.
...*Oh, me?
I'm doing just fine fair weather,
Light as a feather, am I.*
But look!
...how the Earth shakes proudly the rocks upon her back.
Cast no Stones, She moans
...and you?
How do you do?*
Aug 29, 2014
Aug 29, 2014 at 1:09 PM UTC
Fingers tapping, one, two, three,
A slow rhythm drums in my chest.
The words on my screen blur and fade before me.
The world slows as we are put to the test.
The streets, barren and eerily silent,
Darkened windows, chairs on tables.
Places once filled with noise now absent.
Are we now living in one of God's fables?
Perhaps, then, we must stop and listen,
Listen to the lessons He is teaching us all.
These drastic measures, so brazen,
Yet we are close to the edge, were we to fall?
See kindness and beauty,
See all that is good,
As Mother Nature breathes freely,
Tired from all She withstood.
Laughter and bored games,
Brought together by distance,
Whilst the air, the water, She reclaims,
No more waiting, no more patience.
Yes, waters clear as emissions drop;
A truly beautiful consequence.
But we must not forget - take the time to stop,
Extend our minds to at whose expense.
Unemployment creeps ever higher,
Many lives are lost.
For those a dark and terrible chapter,
Enduring such a saddening cost.
The good that lies within,
The beauty of humankind,
Rainbows, clapping, togetherness underpin,
Our world, our people, our priorities realigned.
So listen we must,
To our animals, our rivers, our Earth.
Look to your nearest and dearest,
Use this time to recognise their full worth.
Nov 2, 2021
Nov 2, 2021 at 6:12 PM UTC
My lips can no longer hold back.
The muted tones cannot bring out the infinity that hides
discretely
points
to an exit sign.
Certainty waves goodbye. My only function now is to collapse it.
To put the past behind.
The barred doors allow the bottleneck to tighten for a few hours,
but memory has a way of sounding the alarm in the morning
when the early birds rise,
armed with ancient lessons
that remind me they're the ones who are eating well.
I want to come up from the dirt and drink from the well.
My low-life self can no longer heed the worm's advice:
"Sleep all day and you won't get eaten."
Out.
Out with your tepid voice and halfway disposition.
Out with your elevated mind, your profound commitment to the mediocre task
of enlightening the little people.
The empire you fabricate may stay stitched for a while.
But the clothes of emperors always burst at the seams.
A workaholic, addicted to the common
you're winning your converts with tired dreams, vicarious imaginings of those finer roads, well tread by shoes that are not your own.
You don't believe in the masses. Fine. But get the **** off
your throne.
Reciting badly drawn poems at four in the morning
(it could have been worse e.g. I could have wrote "mourning")
looking to insight myself,
not into a passionate frenzy
like Bacchae drunk on the moonlight.
No -- I want piercing red. That's what I want to be.
Want to show the heavens how I use the precious wine.
Sip it.
Out the undulations go.
Sweating out the great myth that time forgets when it flows.
My pagan-witch ego has put me on the hunt for blood tonight,
and the full moon is giving rise to ****** undulations,
washing up teeny-book explanations
of loves once lost.
But I'm far from my being,
and from the infinite ocean.
And the only sound I can hear right now is my one hand clapping at the curtain call,
retiring my broom,
bowing goodbye.
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 12:23 AM UTC
I have hands that won’t keep
to themselves.
They are always rummaging
and dancing and clapping
and snapping and opening
and closing and trying to fix
every
single
broken thing they can find.
And that includes you.
My heart is a bottomless pit for aches.
Not mine, but yours.
It’s almost a cursed thing, how
despite its size being only that of my fist,
my heart always finds a way to squeeze in
some new hurt into the spaces that
before you,
I never knew existed.
There they stay;
and like all things that stay,
with enough time,
become part of their surroundings.
I can’t tell whose cut is whose anymore.
Put me in a room full of people.
Blindfold me.
Spin me like a tornado.
Make me stop.
My outstretched fingers will be reaching
for the most broken souls in the room.
Call it compassion. Kindness. Empathy.
Whatever you like,
but there is a fine, fine line between that
and the way I bleed.
Oh,
how I bleed.
Forgive my boldness when I say
I won’t even try to make you understand
the fact that I do
somehow
understand.
Think of it this way: ripples.
And I always get the last one.
I’m still a child.
I like to play pretend.
I’m a doctor.
I’m a superhero.
I’m the one with all the answers,
all the weapons,
all the magical cures.
Take that!
And that!
Ha! Aha! Ha!
Ha…
Ha.
As the years wear on,
I see that my tools aren’t right,
and that my cape is too tight around my neck.
I don’t have all the answers.
No weapons.
No magical cures.
I’m just a girl trying to play the part that was never hers.
And it’s taken me three volcano boys,
a couple of glass-bottomed hearted girls,
and just about the rest of the world to realize that I
am not
the Savior.
My hands were not made to heal
every heart they rest themselves upon,
or to fill that vacuum inside every man,
one that nothing,
nothing,
nothing in this world will ever
make
whole.
So here.
I let go of every burden that’s been
causing me to stoop and to stumble,
every pressing weight that’s been
keeping me from keeping faith,
every heavy yoke that’s been
causing me to choke on things
I never should have let in
in the first place.
Yet I will continue to love you.
I have come to learn that love
has a lot of ugly before it becomes beautiful,
a lot of hurt before healing’s arrival,
a lot of you before any of me.
My part is done.
These fidgety fingers no longer carry suffering.
Here, let me see yours, though battle scarred and bruised.
You’ve been bearing more than you were built for, beloved.
I think it’s time to surrender.
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 2:42 PM UTC
her churiyan clashed
submerging in the red, orange and green
of her sharara
as she spun round and round
a blur of striking colors
her laughing face hidden
among those of her cousins
as they danced in a circle
each girl wearing colors of the rainbow
smiles like the sun brightening their faces
their bare feet decorated with mehndi
as they spun on their toes
letting their hair follow them like velvet curtains
the pitter patter of their restless feet
becoming one with the music around them
the elders of the family
throwing rose petals and clapping
watching the new generation
bless the married couple
with laughter, colors & life
the girl with curls in her hair
pulling down the bride-to-be
off the stage and onto the dance floor
her fiancé nudging her and watching his future
twirl with the young girls
as families became from two to one
he looked upon his love with eyes full of wonder
as she pushed back her dark hair and hid her face
refusing to dance
but even the blushing bride couldn't stop the girls
from convincing her to join them
they took her by the hands
and let the music guide them as they threw their arms in the air
swaying to songs about boundless ishq
and the stars which shine upon those who fall in the arms of endless love
the bride's red gharara shimmering under the lights
complimenting the red in her cheeks
the sparkle in her teeka bright
but never brighter than the twinkle in her euphoric eyes
her mother teared watching her baby all grown up
and her father looked at her as his success
seeing his only daughter so full of joy
others onlooked
as the girls embraced their youth
and with the bride created a circle of joy
for that moment,
the love was shared between them all
they forgot all about their heartbreaks
and the everlasting love which never lasted
they forgot all about the boys with pretty eyes and even prettier lies
as they rejoiced over the love of their loved ones
with a little inch of hope in their own hearts
that someday someone would look at them
as the smiling groom did the stunning bride
*passion. surety. serenity.
pyaar*
Dec 26, 2015
Dec 26, 2015 at 9:55 AM UTC
/
Many days
I do not read any newspaper
Even do not see television
At all
Many days have gone
After You
I do not read any poetry
How to feel that since this morning!
Repeatedly hear identifying tunes on the air
Your arrival in the sky,
The air reverberates
Looks like another day
In the Paradise,
In another song,
Which brings the soul
The Aroma
Everyone is coming out
From all sides
Young Old
Babies Boys
Women Men
Everyone
Everyone is clapping
Singing the song of the same tune
This song is not the song of Rain
Not even a lamentation
The Southern breeze whispering your words
Slowly Said,
The Little Tailor Bird
No, No,
Not such a summer afternoon
Not even a hurricane warning
Each of the human eye
Follow the Eastern Sky
Tireless Eye
Watching the sun,
The Red Sun,
You went to bring dreams for us
From the Sun
Hundreds of thousands of people
In his next question
Hand with Flower
Shoulder to Shoulder
Today will be the day of strangers,
The poet will come
We are standing in the flowers
Fist full of dreams to take
Float in the sky with white clouds
My dreams are calling again
Today is not such an Autumn
But Still feel like an Autumn
Indeed,
The poet will come,
A poem in the New
Where each word will be spoken dream
Love to be evacuated
Poems that will repay
The debt to my Ancestor
Take revenge on thee
For their injustice,
Torture
Poems that would bring the stars
For our next generation
A poem that would bring the red rose for my darling,
Would bring such a smile to my mother's face
As Moon that smile
And that is simply killed false dreams
Will we ever Released
Sing Freedom Songs
The Poet,
My beloved Poet
You will come,
Will surely come
And will recite your immortal poem
/
@ Musfiq us shaleheen
Jan 23, 2015
Jan 23, 2015 at 11:11 AM UTC