Promises as the count of stars,
And as dark as the den,
Stand still, like the dried scum
Over the tea glass on my table;
Crushed papers garland my floor,
And they move to and fro,
To the periodic gusts of the slow turning fan;
The four walls around me pictures memories,
Which my eyes don't see but my tears'
Suddenly I turn my head towards the window,
Oh yeah! The only dramatic bridge to the moon,
In moon I see nothing,
But the round vague face
Of the known unknown,
Now my hair curls up more than before at a faster rate,
Pulling my attention back to the papers again;
Unspoken words flood my paper,
And I lie on its side,
Like-
A fish on shore,
A kite on a pond,
A fly on the fire,
Burning all my way to salvation...!
But obvious enough,
Winters promise summers,
Rains promise sunshine,
Buds promise flowers,
Cocoons promise butterflies,
Every map promises a destination,
And every question a reply,
So does life promises a story,
sour or ripe'
Says so, this storyteller,
Through her LOST STORY'! ! !
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem