I daily call you out my inner voice.
I get to listen to my echoes but no replies from you.

I daily search you my inner voice.
You are nowhere.

I can't feel your presence in me.

Do you still perdure in me ?

Where are you ?
Are you hidden behind the ebony trees in the forbidden forest ?
Has fire burned you to ashes ?

Your unread words on the paper have been washed away by the spilled water.
The regret of not reading you is burning inside me.

Yes , I always kicked you out of my soul.
But this was never my instinct.
I did this under the stimulus of others.

You are my soul.
Without you , my life is a deserted valley.

Wherever you are , please come back to me.
I promise you that I will always listen to you and obey your orders.

A long day,
A winding valley,
Between two ancient cliffs.
A song of a sparrow breathes through the air.

A lone traveler,
Along the dusty road,
Formed by man's sweat, blood, and bone.
Living on until it fades.

Nothing in this lonely place,
Will survive the plague of time.
For in each long lost memory,
Everything will die.

The sparrow song stops, stilled by death,
The winding valley loses its shape.
The two towering peaks tumble into weeds,
And what is becomes what was.

She lays on the hill
between heaven and hell
and ponders
the valley's
name.

At the valley
Of butterflies
In Rhodes, Greece
I encountered
Nature's love affair
Feisty flowers
Rainbow colors
Flying gorgeously everywhere
Beyond anybody's reach
Fluttering here and there
Once the caterpillars
Magically turned into animated fairies
Gently hugging the trees
With their soft and fragile wings
Their inexplicable performance
Has fully mesmerized
Thousands of travelers
Enjoying the splendors
Of this world
And to be one of them
I am so gratified

Your desperation
reeks
so much that you can
smell it in your bed
and you can hear it
in your head.
Sometimes you’d like to
fill it with
lead
so that you’ll really
be in your bed
where you can still
hear her voice
as it
echoes
in your head
like it did in the
valley.

In the valley of darkness, I shall not want
Though a hole resides where the heartbeat should be
The vessels still do their work

My lungs decay, black and smoked out
And my organs dry up from strong rums
And the things I hold dear become a desert storm

But I shall not ask for the help of dying trees
Whose fruit, though ripe, would leave me with less leaves
Or perhaps with more than I could bear

No, I stand on the mountains
The mountains we lived in, where the church sits upon the hill
I stand on the mountains and call for him

I call for him
and I know - without science or senses -
That he is near