I wait for you, for the eternal love between you and the aching soil,
I wait to smell the sky opening like a cave to let you break,
mud in the pots and old red walls painted in your colourless colour.
I forget everything, you’re my manner of detachment
from agonies and suffering that make me dreadfully dry.
I forget the laments of the broken heart of that black bird
once shooed away for her colour and once for her free song.
They taught me it’s an act of a fool to wait for something
which is temporary and seasonal, but what are you if not the face of freedom?
Do you not break your ties with the vastness of the sky
to meet your old graves buried in the soil?
I love how I fail to believe you’re a season’s gift and
I’m a desperate freak in your waiting and in forgetting of this drained self.
Summer begins to stink, no way different from these people, poor bodies,
crushed in small yellowed houses caged in their wraths and dooms.
I wonder if summer intends to make jokes, every season, on our shattered blossom.
Hot air we breathe but bones still frozen.
I wait for you, for the season to match with how my heart feels.
Only on your arrival, do my songs and sorrows drown into one another,
Just like the first rain drops sizzling on the forsaken old heated floors.
I wait for you all day long, without measures and calculations
everything is wrong, so wrong, but everything will be right
when the sky is not too bright, a little dull and lifeless for a while,
and then your beginning, the upheaval first and a continued soothing hymn.
Waiting remains but seasons change;
But a man never said four seasons be enough for escapes and
when have I not asked for more, just a little more of you?
An unseen solitary ocean is waiting in my songs
for a few dewdrops of petrichor to let me melt
my ruins of reality with you.