To the psychiatrist
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Tell her who is resting on your couch,
A cliché we live
Spread amid the movements of planets,
Satellites and stars.
A cliché to live on and on, long
Without solution.
Her ear never hears such chants of days.
Trivial days of life.
There is a lonely road of cold dirt
Somewhere in our heart.
Somewhere a single bud of white flower
Held in a lean hand
Of a boy who sells mundane flowers
To foreign tourists.
Doctor, send her a life with hands
Of friends still to be
Lost in oblivion of fences and
Cartographer's dreams.
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Comments: 15
Thank you for sharing this.
"There is a lonely road of cold dirt
Somewhere in our heart."