Accustomed to watch people from their back 

It is just sad sometimes to know that many people have beautiful back. When they walk away, literally away leaving me behind to watch their departure, I realise the beauty that I never had found in them before. Is it because I romanticise their departure, or because I do not observe well of their beauty when they are around in the present moment? Many people come and go, as I come and go all the time their sides. We all know that growing up, or to say getting ages, doesn’t always mean that one gets accustomed of farewells and meeting-ups. But there are moments that one just wants to be a grown-up; it is just a pity that one never get older in such sense.

Living with people maybe is a repetitive test that we all are proving the frase ‘no one is an island’. I, being an alien in this foreign land, sometimes observe solitude of my own, and of others. Far from home, away from family, time-clocking friendship in that every one is returning to their origen, are the facts ironically make me be with them more time, recognising more of those solitudes around us. Recognising it but not being to help them out is considered to me the very profound human feeling. Someone said; Don’t hang around for someone who doesn’t really sort of urgently want to be with you. You might miss out on all the good stuff. How affirmative the frase is, and people prove it with their deep-dragging sigh.

Some friends put them on cleaning mode. If cleaning symbolises the act of arranging minds squared away, they normally fail on being on such mode. I was asked to take a walk, and I replied my willingness. He told me then, that I cannot. Is that true that all men are just an island? Yes, maybe. But I do believe that somehow in the deep water we are all connected, and you might call it humanity or belief. I want to devote a poem for all of those who feel solitude; ironically, that very solitude is the proof that we are living, that we are making our own sounds just as the separated strings of Cello. Since they keep the distance, they can make the harmony, can’t they?


Defluent sounds of Cello

The bow scratches trembling
those carved strings on the body
from the thick to the thin one
the bow slashes out loud

Why wouldn’t you be affixed
are you not lonely
are you not sad on parallel
can you not hear it raspy

Those strings of strings
tremble out for harmony
shiver scratched
bleed on the manuscript

Harmonised to be lonely
solitary much so
beads of blood brrr
shift to be notes that bow follows

Wail and yowl,
for you cannot be snapped


(the original language version is cited in:

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