What am I to do when the gladiolus cannot stretch out of
this vase of loneliness anymore?
My love was the assurgent of these ladders!
Why do all the things end?
Why these feeling now have no ladder to climb?
Where is endlessness
at the ends of these roads?
Horizon is the chicken no one could ever catch
in the three-dimension world,
a slippery aim
always holding on to its space,
bricks
to build the dream of reality,
dots, assuming volumes.
Stop signs do not limit us.
A poem would not finish in the end of these staves.
A full stop is not the end of a hemistich.
Flame do not end in the end of candles.
Only sky is
the end of a bird.
Sunflowers would never wither in the canvas of lanterns.
A Lilly is eternal in poetry,
a hero
in the human conscience.
