The language we speak
is the language of thunder
The visual language
abruptly bursts into
Cries of Protest.

The life - full of fire and fumes
Frustration is boiling
With threatening hissing
The life is on the verge of death
deep sighs groping longingly in the darkness
preparation for a due repulsement
is on-going.

The language we speak
is the language of thunder
Under the chiaroscuro of visual language
ding-dong goes the bell of the clock
knocking at the door :

The thunder of the spring is in the air
Insurrection is at the threshold
What is destined to happen should happen
The sky will burst asunder
Someday the seventh heaven
will come down
On the way to our door
And will speak the language we speak
visually in many spangles
on our terracotta floor.

Categories: Poetry [t]

Sorry, you do not have permission to comment.

If you are a member, try logging in again or accessing this page here.