painting is “Dancing Woman” by Roaa
Like the nihilistic moon, sun, and clouds,
and everything else that breathes unwillingly,
I stroll with the tragedy, the tragedy strolls me,
stemless I stand, present yet away,
like the moon and sun,
and everything with a name and story,
and the clouds having no choice
but to float.
Like the sapling oppressed by gust and heat,
I scarcely run from this mood.
Instead I stay, from sentiment I abstain,
just as the sage flower does not sway
unless the winds give their permission.
Just as every leaf collapses to the ground,
emigrating from their tree;
there’s no yearning for meaning,
not for me,
not the rest of the combatants.
Just like anything else
forced into existence,
we receive this tragedy,
designate it as life.
The Color of Melancholy
Rainfall and I, like a pair or duo,
me and the rain, we express vainly.
Mighty is the pain of this woe,
vainly we protest in our hearts,
vainly cave in, vainly seek.
Put a stop to us, tell us how foolish
I am and this delirious downpour,
remind us it is futile.
How can I not bow
to this grey coloring they call sky?
I see artists worshiping it,
lovers divulging beneath it.
But for all that,
do they really know you? Have they watched you
corresponding to me? Miraculously
being my friend. Let us ponder this grey;
The Sun Retreats When You Await It
Sleep beside the clamor of the night.
The sun retreats when you await it.
In the face of formidable facts,
your blathering mind recoils,
beautiful peace shall ensue!
Adjust your wear as you wrestle,
you look sublime when you sweat.
The dawn is slow to come
when pressured, so
leave it alone!
Caress the fear when it is crying.
Cradle in your arms the noise.
Want it and boldly salute it;
Look at you, gracefully
venturing into life!
The Form of Happiness
As if the sun knew
I have been entreating Time to bring
a summer in my room visiting.
Indeed the sun sensed that I
have been on my knees.
So collect every light you can.
Grasp it here and there!
Before the season of sorrow arrives.
Soon, or by and by,
a Dark Creature gets to your door
and seeks you, and violently, but finds you,
Until then, I bask in this, the daylight
before the finale.
Allow me to study the details,
memorize the look of this joy, before
I lose it.
The Little Man
Though he writes hardly ever,
though the father was not poetic,
he carried a verse around like a secret,
it was only public when we touched.
But he felt hardly ever,
the night he writhed in his bed,
from side to side, but he said
that he beat him so much
he could not sleep.
And just like that: another poet
cast away his passion.
Then where does the beauty in his words
sprout from when we kiss?
When all his eyes have witnessed
Still he dreams of that verse,
as though poetry was a woman.
a poetry maker shrouded
inside a commendable engineer,
he will never write again.