Sunday, 14 August 2011


The laughter of a child
brings back my memories of a kid
who was never mine
but that I loved as my own.

It haunts me, now and then.

I chase them away immediately
as if they were mosquitoes menacing to sting me.

Reminding that the kid is 11 and I do not know him,
still feels like waking up from a vivid dream.


I write to survive the fact that I'm not living
it's just my way of injecting myself with morphine in this slow death.

I've had them all before, but not him, not quite yet, he remains a mistery to me.. He is utterly complex, his mind is beyond comprehension, and maybe that's why I will never be done with him.
No matter how hard it is, I always love him and I never give up.

Many times, I realize I am as misterious and also not even so clear to myself: it's what you are, what you think you are and the aspects that you show to others; which can also be neither of them.
There was no need for such complexity.. And you can't even pour it into a glass and drink it.. Just a waste.

Monday, 8 August 2011

Leisure, by William Henry Davies

What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.

No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.

No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night.

No time to turn at Beauty's glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance.

No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began.

A poor life this is if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.