Biography of Halsho Zangana
I am a paintist, but I have a tendency towards writing poetry even English is not my native language, but sometime things come to my mind that I want them to remain... so I record them by words.
I wanted to share a bit of my works with you, hope you enjoy reading it.
Halsho Zangana Poems
Those fireflies around the lantern... They know their fate. yet, they are in haste to burn and waste
A Dream Is Missing
For nights my dream is missing, till now I'm obsessed thinking, yet, no way to start looking for prints of a harmonic foot.
The Mood Of My Mornings
I get lazy when a dream of you is being delivered to me, I find awakening a difficult task, as I see you in the vision, bringing a flood of fire,
Red colors... Remind me of the forgotten sunsets. Red, like the cheeks of a shy flower, innocent. Floating on the Clouds, Swaying in the dark.
It Is 10 Pm
I sank the room in the dark, and lit the candles one by one, but the romance won't fill air, till the waiting is done.
A daylight sets off for fading and fading, and starts to make a poet wander dreaming. A rainbow, a poem, in my mind awakening, to remind me that you're my moonlight.
It Was Somewhere Under The Moonlight
It was somewhere under the moonlight, where I could see those eyes full of rhyme. Where I could rhythm those lips, by a flow of love, by tender and a kiss.
You come, with the breeze of night, and it is my corpus of candles, you come, and ignite. I see your soft skin, which reflects like the moon,
I Hate Beauty!
Blue color is what I hate, even the feathery snowflakes. I despise the breeze that comes dulls the mind, cuddles the soul,
I have been waiting for you long enough inside my mind, Yet, I know not who you are, or which soul can save you from that rusty cage. You who I ever dreamt of...
A Tribute To The Light
The moon and the sun crept to me in an atmosphere of red sunset. I was amidst a terrible piece of writing...
I wandered in a garden alone, carrying a blunder on my own. Among the yellow and greens of God, shame was my glory and crown. Under a blue glassy sky, staring dumbly wondering why
You Delay The Down
Always waiting faced the gate that you might break through, yet you delay the dawn. There is not a vent in the walls,
The Story Of An Old Man
A ten years old, curious boy asked an old man: 'Hey mister, why have you grabbed, under your weak shoulder, a cane? ' The old man answered with eyes staring at the view of sun's abate: 'Son as there are no dears left for me, and every second I get older.
The Mood Of My Mornings
I get lazy when a dream of you is being delivered
to me, I find awakening a difficult task,
as I see you in the vision,
bringing a flood of fire,
you leave nothing more to ask.
In a place where the weak sun
lightens enough to see your face,
I find my hands with thousand fingers
insufficient to get your grace.