with the repetitive sound of sighs and symmetrical silence
the tongue has become sharp and it stabs hearts
it breaks open what has been closed all along and hidden
birds start breaking out from cages
and feathers are left as memories which somehow the one who is left
empty takes it to his heart and becomes his pen
the lonely man writes
with blood from his bleeding heart stabbed by the sharpness of his own
past
the sound becomes even more demanding like routine that you cannot refuse
and somehow the silence becomes irregular, asymmetrical taking the shape
of a scream, which the tongue most sharpened now
slices into dust
and this reaches to the conclusion that no matter how sharp the tongue can be
it too shall in the end turn into
dust..............................
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem