God of lesser mortals...

Dancing winds and rain in the terrace,

Old to my apartment, new to my grace,

Saw the day I lived forever,

When I saw... saw your face,

An eye out for everything,

As morning and evenings passed by,

I saw them ... the shadows,

Saw them... how hard they try....

Emotions by Tamilia

An old town for written embraces,

New faces with astral scars,

All seem to sin for ages,

In a coupe where it embarks,

The past is weaving,

The fabric of things gone wrong,

And songs of time are waiting,

For someone... someone strong,

You’ve created this niche for me,

This ocean where we can swim,

The tides and waves you’ve set free,

Never made our chances slim,

The God of lesser mortals in denial,

Heroes bask in a darker glory,

Thoughts that put faith on trial,

... And all that is said... is half the story...

Bhabnar bilasita thakuk bhabnatei,

Alo-adhar e mishe geche jibon,

Pashe ache sobai tao keu nei...

(Let the luxury of thoughts stay in itself... life is smudged in darkness and light... everyone’s by your side yet no one’s visible...)

Impuritus.

Coal Barges in Arles, Vincent Van Gogh.

Pour me out

In a cup of doubt,

Because tomorrow’s here

And it feels just like today,

All the hypnotic themes,

Woven into fabrics,

That veil the carcass

Of my soul... it feels no more.

What it does

Is ruled out by all

... fair means,

The space of separation

Is the only thing

That grossly connects life

And the fraternity of time in between,

To fake to be unmoved,

Is an illusion to die for.

What the weak would have contrived,

For there is no such thing as fate,

As Fate would have loved to say,

But temporary deaths are shaken by

The fables that terracotta Gods tell,

So pour my thoughts

In a heap of waste

For tomorrow came so often

That I don’t even feel being here today...

Tania.

Tania,

There’s a storm raging outside,

I’m scared, grandma’s weak,

And there’s no place to hide,

The man in the hood,

Promised you’d be alright,

Dreams violated by needs,

Took it in your stride,

Through the windows of the asthmatic apartment,

Searching for yourself in the dark streets of Moldova,

And bleeding for the unborn, unknown and unwilling,

This isn’t home...

Tania,

I’m sick,

Roses smell like weeds,

The tree you planted in the backyard,

Lightning split it in half,

Why you cut your hair?

Why those eyes, which were so reassuring,

Lay out a tired stare?

Those fairytales weren’t lies I know,

I’ve dreams of you in a better land,

Slipping away in shifting images,

Just like in that small mirror in your hand,

Tania,

He cut me up once,

Now he says to buy a coffin,

And I am ever so glad,

Don’t go back there, don’t look so sad,

Its better this way, this wasn’t your way,

I’m free; I hope you escape your past,

For I know now...

Some stories don’t have happy endings,

Some stories... don’t even last...