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Wed Jun 25, 08 10:22 AM
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STORY from Life
The soul of ink
Ink is nothing but ashes of words
That have burned
And dissolved in tears
And in bitter weeping
On the silence of the papers
To translate the pains …
Scent is but flowers' blood
Captured by breezes
For the desire of basil
Poetry, my friend, is
This and that
And all that passed!
**
***
Drawn by eyes,
Diffused by pains,
As another pain in the afterglow.
Then, why do you think?
It is the act of writing
It is a mere blue ink,
Drawing letters,
And coloring the land
N/A
Link:
http://blog.bitcomet.com/hobaneta/post_41635/
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