the white pigeons
find their home inside
the ceiling of this
house
every night i hear their
moaning sounds
they're like the weeping willows
meeting the winds from the far away mountains
there is a packet of winds
trapped in this room
forming a whirl
soon the walls shall tremble
something must give way
to a storm
lest these windows break
frames dismantled
to give birth to a pair of eyes
that will not flicker when it starts
to stare to the sun
or waver to the salt of the earth
these tongues of the mind
these teething thoughts
These are poetic experiments. Man's quest for the poetic element never ceases. He is always caught in the eye of awe. He does not make the rules now. The rules change depending on the emotion that time and space feed him. He must see everything with his wide eyes gaping. The beginning of poetry too, like philosophy is wonder. Look and see. Do not stop wondering You are the poet. And everything is poetry. Wonder. Wander.
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