A story in three nights: who will believe it?
1
Soft wind,
warm wind,
quiet in its roar.
Pulls me,
lifts me-
my sighed core.
What is it that I want?
My thoughts are
slightly, satisfied.
A thought mine:
silent, needs,
no emotion which leads;
this sweet rain,
this damp care,
which does not spare
me, but I know
that I will rise,
leave the cold,
return like mad,
back to bed,
back to you;
oblivion.
For the comfort that I found,
is not from here,
nor from now,
is but a small, short wick,
which happened to stick,
somewhere in my heart.
2
I stand again,
the second night;
seeing that which I light,
that which I can.
-a cold eve befalls me-
Seeking clouds,
grating, grousing;
layer to layer,
like silent communicator
-s from the wind
are standing around me
whispering of a must,
their origin,
their lust,
is what I get to be.
Can I control,
use this?
Can I fall,
misuse this?
Who will tell me
a difference.
Who will tell me
my insurance
...of desire?
3
Walks through my mind
lead me here,
and here again;
my home of what's been,
and gone again.
Like the street over the hill,
to the right of this place,
this too leads to the devil,
the devils face.
Known/unknown,
it matters not;
'cause just like the lot
they all stretch out
endlessly before me.
Riding on my bike,
through the night ringing
with music alike;
fading into nothing
like a thought,
which suddenly,
forgot who was singing...
to me before.
Proposed a grand lore:
how long will I believe it?
Three nights have passed now.
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