What is sadder, a falling star or a falling kite?

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What is love if not waiting for a century to consume a moment where fire unites with water and where moonbeam and ray of sunlight weave an exquisite pattern that vanishes with a kiss?

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Isn't it brine that runs in the veins of fishermen and isn't the flesh of farmers made of grain?

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What is love

if not a need

to write a short story with lips and to lose identity in her eyes?

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If the root gets hard

when the first flower dies,

does it grow harder still

with each subsequent flower that falls?

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He was lying

wasn't he,

the man who said that

time heals everything,

for isn't it true that

time is but a pain killer

and that the true physician is

death?

Yours to comment