at night the sound of flowing water
(not as gentle as raindrops) come crawling in the tunnel of a dream,
i listen cautiously
i refuse to remember what is gentle and kind and compassionate
i have no veins. Neither i am a pipe of someone else
I am merely silence. And silence does not creep or
crawl.
It stays, it is a pool.
A worshiper of the moon, a lover of the night
that drinks the bounty of darkness, compromising upon the
slowed glow of
moonlight.
it is at this hour when the soul speaks, and the body listens,
friends again.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem