A gate into the world has cracked.
Light flows into the youngs' eyes.
Stumbling using their large feet,
The eyases stare into their falcon's shadow.

Born into a world, born into their nest,
Along a cliff where they'll spend their youth.
40 days they'll spend here.
2 months they'll be dependent on their falcon.

The tiercel will be fierce.
He will protect his offspring.
The falcon will nurture.
She will feed her offspring.

But all must leave the nest.
Twigs, dirt, and dead vegetation,
No longer can contain the eyases.
They fledge until they're confident.

Avid hunters and brutal slayers.
Beaks covered in blood were once creamy young.
They patrol the skies as kings.
They're "of noble birth; aristocratic".

Three early birds broke the flying record today,
Under a ball of yellow light and sky of white cobwebs,
Uphill, amidst a godforsaken town,
At the far end of the deserted residential area,
In front of our binned and bagged house,
On the peach tiles of our topsy-turvy garage,
Inside a scroungy cardboard box,
Between the wasted space and rotten nest made of broom,
Where they left their bodies mushy and misshapen,
Where a colony of red ants now celebrate for a carrion feast.
They flew higher than any in their kind could ever reach,
That they went straight to heaven,
Early for their embellished feathers and wings,
Early for their final cartilages,
Early for their full-grown beak and claws,
Early for their black, beady eyes,
Early for their last rites,
Yet for us to forecast the bad news,
Yet for us to get off of our plastic chairs of indifference,
Yet for us to drop our glasses of lemon juice and inattention,
Yet for us to fumble outdoor and crash the ceremony,
Yet for us to solve the mystery,
Of whether the ball of yellow light radiated enough to fry,
That the three early birds had to fly the coop to oasis;
Of whether our mother's frenzy gave a cold welcome,
That the three early birds had to say goodbye when she tossed the box out;
Of whether I am to blame for yesterday's miracle
Of finding their home attached to the open bottom of our air-conditioner,
Which turned into a tragedy of a falling baby out of excitement,
That the three early birds felt like it was time to join their fourth sibling once again.
Indeed, too early
For the three siblings endowed with a mother and a father,
For mankind is blessed enough to have such a thing as family,
Who claimed the three early ones before the garbage does,
Who could've been proud parents in the future,
For witnessing the becoming of their three youngs
Who came out too soon,
Who were traceless of eggshells,
Who never knew a father,
Who were ****** enough to even be abandoned by a mother,
Who never knew if she even came back for them,
Who broke the flying record.
Indeed, too early.
After days of packing up sentiments,
Donating valuables,
Throwing away memories,
And leaving behind possessions,
I thought, for a moment,
We could save something
But we couldn't.

(So Ya
Thought Ya
Might like to Go to the Show)


When night glows with smiles
The youngs looks up to old
And we bow down and we clap
and we dance, tears sneak down
And the clouds are all drained
The sun could never be gone.
Seasons change, dreams are forgotten
The band was the sun.
Such warmth only with their rays.

The crowd revived the town
Closer we are more than ever now
The sound smoked with lights
The band was twinkling somewhere out
Sleepy eyes in my head
I was there and somewhere
I could feel me in sweat
I was marching high and
could hear chanting of Om.

Maybe because we are the youngs,
We believe we are entitled to tongues.
That we shall be heard,
To you it is absurd.
Like the beetle, you roll the dung.

You think us silly children,
Yet inside lies the cauldron
That shouts the time of the youth.
Forsaken by the booth,
We begin our costly sojourn.

Our eyes reveal our mind ambitious.
Your eyes see through silicasacious
Perception of a generation passed.
Culture imposed in the manner of caste.
I condemn you to be philosophically abstemious

It is directly simple, comrade
We have jumped from the time balustrade
You a little early,
Us, a little burly
Yet, it was all meant for a crusade

This is an adage for thinkers
To ensure we and you never wear the blinkers.
This is my warning,
To stay awake until morning
Remember that we eventually rest with clinkers.

“The problem with falling is sooner or later
you’ll have to hit something.”
- Jenny Owen Youngs

My eyes met your eyes
at nine years old in the cafeteria.
I learned you were terrible
over a loud lunch where

your laughter met the spilled drink
and tears making their way
down another’s skin.

Your hands met my back
before I met the sting
of your unheated pool.
This was the standard when

my lips met your lips
at an age we boasted
in a space that was ours.

My friends met your personality
not once.
Our space was where you launched us.

My gaze met the Milky Way
when you were the only one
around to care for light years.

My feet met the ground
when you called me
your favorite expletive.
You rethought that stunt when

my fist met your face
upon remembering how terrible
you were in the first place.

People are like wines,
Or it is the reverse?

Uniques, unrepeatables.
Surprisings,  forcefuls,
capricious, forgettables,
beautifuls,
friendly,
rudes, youngs, matures .........


I like wine
I love people

For each of her sleepless night,
a day passes, without she realized.
Night calms her,
more than anything could ever.
The absence of noises,
of people,
but never the absence of him.

His imagery grows stronger,
each and every night.
She misses him,
each and every night.
She longs for him,
each and every night.

She knows he did too,
she wished he did too.

The pair were off to different path.
They are selfless,
unaware of their raging ego.
Of the burning love,
of the passionate love, youngs pursue.

They do not seek love that made them tremble,
that made their knees week,
or made their heart flutter.

They, now,
they seek for home,
in each other.

Home where there are only them,
in which silence, never translated
​into distance.