One.
In your rose-tinted
city
have you seen how
the rain falls!
Starting, stopping………moment to moment!
This grey city of mine…….
here too the rain
descends,
clouds push aside the sun
and arrive before we know it,
only you do not
come!
My heart says,
she is there in the mind’s
center,
then why this
longing?
I say laughing,
she is right there
indeed,
that’s why I’m still
alive!
Though I know clouds fill
the sky
the heart still wants to touch
the clouds!
Rain soaks
the city,
your absence soaks
this heart.
Binding myself to
the storm winds,
some part of me
I sent long ago,
did you receive it?
To think of you
means………
courting death,
inviting sorrow.
Sometimes I
wish
to become rain and drench
you,
in tender touch
call you into my heart………
Though I know,
when I become
rain,
you will never let yourself
get wet again!
Two.
Questions that come
not from the heart,
not from the throat either,
but from the mouth and
lips;
their answers
though they come from the
heart,
past the throat to the tip
of the tongue
just stop there!
Not all questions want
answers,
not all answers accept
questions,
some questions
are not answers,
they frantically seek
questions!
One who never understands
answers,
give that innocent one
questions, not answers!
Knowing all,
understanding everything,
still some answers,
in what strange obsession,
till death seek
questions!
Three.
No joy, so no joy
today,
pain exists, living in
pain,
duty-bound to live I count
days………
Yet this is better than
joy,
that joy which once
was
in bygone days—
in joy’s disguise.
If some soft
lie
lives masked,
pushing truth aside,
pain is more
comfortable.
What this anguish
offers,
one who doesn’t suffer
cannot know!
I wish desperately
for wild storms
to come,
let falsehood flee and truth
return!
Four.
In the waves and folds
of swaying hair
sulking plays,
in every pore plays
fierce tenderness………
I know it all,
love’s mischievous wheel’s
cruel game!
What love means
to me,
to her is
sickness!
Maybe so,
love itself is the mind’s disease!
This heart thinks,
if this sickness’s
sensation and pain
makes me weep so,
the source of sickness—love
itself,
who knows how
it weeps!