My Words

A poet lives with his words,

He deforms and reforms all the worlds

and all the lives he touches;

I am no poet, I have never been.

Every night, at the simple sight of Moonlight

or even a cloudy Sky

All the words flee from my mind.

And in the morning,

at the sight of the first falling rays of dawn on earth,

clearing the night sky into a well locked vault,

the sunlight shines over the remaining words,

they turn to dust and fly away with the wind

blowing from south.

My words are mischievous children,

they never listen, never care, never do what is right.

They run away to distant plains,

where they can play and shout without any one watching over them. 

They step all over wild flowers and disturb the flow of peaceful streams.

They chase the highest jumping grasshopper and the most colorful butterfly.

And late in the evening,

when the games they play all day long exhaust them to the bones,

they come back just to fall asleep under my bed.