Sunday, May 30, 2010

I wrote you when they were being killed.
the letter may not be received.
You do not know me.
but you desired any language.
you hide yourself in volumes – they said
they saw empty rooms
rusty benches
overgrown garden
and postman thrusting mails in the grey box
which always overflows.
rejection is hard and it exists
like our destinies.
they never found you
who lost the self
in that far away land
from where I wrote.