I lived on the banks of a river.
Among the Poets.
Few would walk among the orchards
I would hear them sing every single evening.
Others would sit by the river
Listen to the stillness of their mirror
And gift memories without a limit.
Let the clock stop someday
And then we would remain timeless.
Like the sailing boats on the
The day when the instruments
Damage their strings
There would be music in silent eternity.
Let the others stop writing,
There would be rhymes all around.
The masts of the vessels would strike
The pale shore where lovers reside
Let the guests stop arriving,
There will be enough food left for dinner.
You are the gatekeeper of hell.
You have created the rust on that iron fender. We lost the beauty of the orchard.
We won’t stay here with you anymore.
There were lots of immortality within the figures named clocks.
I used to cry calling the poets
Around me, they would gather,
some would say love and some garner.
There were few more
By the white waters.
They would often quarrel regarding the
Colour of the river.
Few said White and the rest Colourless.
The majority won but there still remained a doubt.
They simply said,
The calligraphy on the book would remain untouched
If there’s none, but only one.
Give us time, give us evidence.
Timeless evidence and evident time
Would keep ringing.
It would keep bringing
Guests expected during the
Seconds of your day.
I prefer to keep quiet and still.
I see them writing and I stop moving.
I behave like a stillborn.
Only then would the others start writing again
The lovers will never reside with time.
Eternity and immortality would go hand in hand
The sailing boats will keep their masts high.
Stay still. Listen to the song of your cry.
It will cruise you.
Can you hear the scratch of the pens?
The poets are writing. Stay still. Others too are writing…