The rainbow mantle, interchangeably, is tied in the woods and to the neck of my life.
Every time when the serene breeze blows from the west; the mantle stands and watch--unchanged and unmoved.
The idiosyncratic heart, masked in the golden rind, sacrifice oneself to the feet of the holy script; but it looks, no matter what, with the same pigeon blue eyes.
When the drizzle, swiftly and sultrily, falls from every whole of the heart, the vermin on the lawn gets wet, and then, they pray for the sun to glimmer one more time.
I am laying, beneath the trees, besides the rainbow mantle, waiting for my love, who is coming to me, after a life.
The people around me are as much anonymous about the fact as today is to tomorrow.
The statue right in front of me—with leg crossed, eyes closed, fingers entwined—is alive, drunk, and teasing me.
The rusty leaves with the rustling sound, one by one, falls recklessly in the lap of mine and the ground.
The clock strikes more than a life.
The leaves, now, have fallen completely.
The tree is bare and naked; the sun penetrate through the spread wings of the sky and the slender branches of the tree.
But, my love has not arrived yet.
Deep in the corner of my heart, the innate fear and doubt thrives and begins to move to the aisle of my breath and suffocates me.
The clock has ceased to move, for my life is over.
However, the confusion--“Whether I be like the vermin and live or perish and live like the drunkard?” is still alive in my soul.
Then, waiting was the stick I needed to stand and walk, but now, I need the glistening rays to see and live again.