I am the son of my village, ,
I am born in the dreams of my father
and my childhood is his craft,
and the blossoming of my mother's garden.
...
Like a lost letter she stood for a while
to go the other side of the road..
near me who was lying in a corner of this side….
For moments, it seemed she was the same soul in whose palms seeking fulfillment I search in mine…
...
time cannot have a name
neither timelessness.
But an awakening may arrive
in a moment newness may begin
...
The twilight's incense has turned into a small heap;
the prayers are asleep
and God is making himself comfortable
in the wooden frames.
...
In summer he saw her
And on the first occasion of word
It was wool and winter..
In between those disappeared months
...
Girl of the city
What do you see in the girl of the city?
Melodious intelligence or a riding scooty
...
It seemed like a sin is watching,
from the camouflaged trenches.
As she hid her scars with vermillion
And draped her past in a raiment of promise
...
She had often exclaimed that I was like the night
A candle light cannot claim to explore whom,
A riddle, or perhaps a crossword without a guide.
She tried to fill me
...
A few drops of ink were trying to flow out into a blend of black and white...
A few waves of music were trying to reach to their strings, , ,
to write and sing of emptiness, a little mine and a little yours...
In what is no longer, seeking a place I walk and then I meet mine...
...
He returned home through the same village roads,
Some morning declaring his fight against time and its tides,
through which he had gone.
Declaring miles and miles of road shorter than his dreams through which he had gone..
...