Threads of the Sky

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Abstract

world <b><i>We are left alone</i></b>: My pulse The blind eye of my neighbor Bread that is dough Forests That no longer Get soaked in the rain Charcoals That no longer Catch fire with a match Behind Every corner In the darkness of the world Someone Stands with a dagger They Want us The sky Thread by thread Becomes We must Until the end of life Weave the ambiguous and scattered threads Of the sky During the days Everyone From the sound Of a migrating bird Becomes thread by thread <b><i>Everything is incomplete</i></b> We Must Complete the smile of the little girl Must Tune the cuckoo-less instrument Must With every hardship that has occurred Bring the street To an end Let’s cuckoo the clock without a cuckoo And complete the incomplete <b>

Options

<i>Let’s open the closed windows</i></b> Complete the incomplete melodies With the compasses Of the old and aged.</p><div id="fadd" class="link-block"> <a href="https://medium.com/@lightandpaper"> <div> <div> <h2>Light and Paper - Medium</h2> <div><h3>Read writing from Light and Paper on Medium. I tell stories with photographs and poems. Every day, Light and Paper and…</h3></div> <div><p>medium.com</p></div> </div> <div> <div style="background-image: url(https://miro.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:320/0*VCOIFHUwNChYBpF8)"></div> </div> </div> </a> </div></article></body>

Weaving Life’s Incompleteness

Each day, we undergo a metamorphosis, much like the evolving melody of a migrating bird.

In this world, Even the earth No longer Maternally nurtures Plants for growth A curse Can wilt the plants And Abandon them In our beliefs So, What is the solution That in this world We are left alone: My pulse The blind eye of my neighbor Bread that is dough Forests That no longer Get soaked in the rain Charcoals That no longer Catch fire with a match Behind Every corner In the darkness of the world Someone Stands with a dagger They Want us The sky Thread by thread Becomes We must Until the end of life Weave the ambiguous and scattered threads Of the sky During the days Everyone From the sound Of a migrating bird Becomes thread by thread Everything is incomplete We Must Complete the smile of the little girl Must Tune the cuckoo-less instrument Must With every hardship that has occurred Bring the street To an end Let’s cuckoo the clock without a cuckoo And complete the incomplete Let’s open the closed windows Complete the incomplete melodies With the compasses Of the old and aged.