Monday, February 18, 2013


Each day is a surrendering
To the forces both great and humble
Often it is to a force that stays beyond
And always within, to which I am a part
At times to the paper vendor who changes
The familiar with the unfamiliar brands
To the milk man who refuses to open his booth
To the maid servant who develops fancy illnesses
To the waste collector who disappears
Like a cloud from a summer sky.

I don’t threaten people with words
I don’t shake the seats of familial bonds
I don’t hurt people with absence of presence
I don’t think about things that don’t think about me
I just think about those who has stabbed me
Both from front and from behind
And wonder about that particular moment
Before they strike and about their feelings.

Stab as much as you can
You will spill only ink from my heart. 

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