Spring
I yearned to be surrounded with fireflies,
In the meadow of knee-high bushes
Like a secret meeting under the moon.
I desire for the one, but I found no one still but me
And the hush of the frosty wind.
And if I caught those hands,
I would never let them go.
A photo of delight, like a portrait on a wall.
Striding behind the river,
So clear that whenever someone sees the sky in it,
The clouds seem to be like waves, veiling the splendor of the countenance of the moon.
But do not be hoodwinked by the sweetness of its loveliness,
Do not be awaken, until the time is right.
Summer
How lovely the frailty of humanity,
It knows how to love, to pant and weep.
And I thought that someone needs to fill the spaces of these fingers.
All alone I spied as the trees shed its leaves
Counting the stars one by one, as if they were the hands of time.
I may not prophesy what lies after me,
But by faith I believe that the eyes want to see what the heart desires,
Dreams will come into existence.
Those voice painted a song in me, brushed in the chambers of my heart.
Like an inferno, the brightest among the flames I the midnight sky.
But do not be awaken please, until the time is right.
Fall
Live with a moment or depart this life with just some memoirs.
Live like it’s the last fall of the leaf.
Or with some thoughts fallaciously sculptured in one’s imagination.
A dove stretching its wings in a miniature abode of grates and bars.
On thirst of desire to belong to where it should be.
In the air that kisses it with warm embrace.
How long the risen sun fall into slumber, and the moon would paves its way.
How long would neither the river flow nor the leaves run dry.
How long would I wake up alone and sleeps in desolation.
How long would this agony last as the day come to pass?
But do not hasten the flowers to bloom until it so desires.
Winter
Snow falls like feathers
They sewed a grin on my face.
But it penciled too a tear on my cheek which turned then to ice.
The sands of time swiftly subsided beneath.
I never noticed the river’s gloss is in absence,
Could it ever shine the beauty of the night?
No waters can quench, nor could rivers drown it,
If someone tried to buy it with wealth, that offer would utterly be scorned.
The fruit was still raw, unfit for harvest
But no one could condemn it, how melancholic its life had been.
Was it a curse?
If to rue was a drug, I would live like an aficionado.
But it was not but a gift,
Like an endowment that I have to hold on to until the harvest time comes in.
Tomorrow will indubitably come,
As of the moment I would willingly speak,
“Do not be awaken until the time is ripe.”
