Looking at distant words flashing through the window in the rain of tears.
Like faint lanterns from a ship caught in fog,
words search for eyes to enter
and mouths to exit.
O words, drops of rain spattering against the panes of my soul, resounding
chimes in the auditorium of my sparing chandlers,
you tempt me choose the rowdiest of you.
1 comment:
Yess....... Poetry is born in Greece! Only poets see the words; and hear the pictures. Words are living things and try to enter some eyes! One's soul has windows.
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