Thoughts are running; they’re so wild
Like the wind over the hills
I hear echoes of my unborn hopes
Maybe they're only deceptive imagination
Or just delusion of my bitter loneliness
Who passes merciless again and again
Cutting my tormented fear
And crushing wings of hope-butterflies.
Cold, mild breeze but not delightful
Carries full-of-flower smell
Smell of solitude flower.
Shaking agony covers my living tissues. Spreading the doubt that inspiration
Shall hide into the dark eye
Surrounded by petals of wormwood
Belonging to a withered flower
Maybe my solitude flower.
« return.