Treasure Island


of tigers and rivers

you speak of tigers
and you define it not of its colors or shape or form
but of its shadow
this tiger that lies soundlessly between the
wedges of words
inside the indolence of some syllables
at first i am confused
that this tiger may come to form with sharp
razor teeth and then with new feet jump before me
to devour me
but you assured me, diligently in all the books of your
library, filled with dusts and silence, that this will never happen,
i waited for quite long,
there is this sound of a burst of a gun,
some drops of blood dripping from the ceiling,
i am looking for the scene, the Act, and the characters,
of the play that you have not finished writing,
there is the endless space spreading before me
the rivers flow
from my mouth, and i am carried away, to your glimpse
of eternity.
i am afraid, that your tiger is dead.
i suspect, that the rivers too dried.
i hope for more words, i am tired
the same thing happens in the history of men
promises are made to be broken
tigers are shadowy beasts that exist only in the minds
and rivers seemingly flow like all tomorrows
eternal, they never stop
they never end. Like air.

Submitted: Saturday, June 06, 2009
Edited: Saturday, June 06, 2009
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