This is a dream, a dream about a Bird, and a man. I may not make sense to some, yet it may certainly make sense to others. For me, It is a dream of a child hood tragedy that I've never spoken about it. It is too abstract to reader to know what the tragedy was; that is the way I want to keep it. I named it: "TRACE". It is written on 2-3-2001.
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"A door with small windows
Is between me and the wind.
The glasses are sheeted with dust.
The obscure wind has a howling tonight!
Though I can't hear it;
As hard as I tried to listen to its moan!
Dust assembles on glasses,
More and more in front of my eyes.
I arise from my hallucination,
When I see a man is dead,
When I see I was making love
To a bird high in fly.
To see it was wind,
The howling wind which put me to sleep;
Then I close my eyes and see,
They're carrying the man
Out of his home.
he is wearing his glasses;
His full black hair is shinning;
He is wrapped in a white sheet.
They put him in a box;
But the bird insist on making love;
And I want to follow the trace
of what that man has left behind!"
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People say I write depressing poetry; I say happy poems are not poems; they are vignette. I write poems. They are sad, but they are poems. This one is published and I've gotten the best poem of the year award for it...
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