The Fountain of Thought

Painted Paths

The canvas, splashed with elegant colours
Adorned the easel of thoughts high above
With minute images it was wrought
Swimming in the darkest of blues
The sweetest of yellows
The most bitter of reds
Swirls of brown words chased circles
A deep mahogany square of silence
A red dot of blessings
Touching the creaking corners of the heart
Ashen grey it beat

A new moment, a new turn, a new sunshine
Rivulets of green memories ran along the borders
Etched against the sour absences
Dipping and bending
Under the weight of the sooty presence
The brush of sanity had wreaked these strokes
From which dripped oils of craziness
Painting happiness twisted in the copper coils of emptiness
Shining with salty crystals of anguish
Coated with the sullen dust of yesterdays
Ah yesterday is yet to come
For today has already seen the sunrise in the evening

- Swati Nair, India (birdysworld)

hier / here

if it hadn't been for her plan to read the library books in a new order, in the most alpha-basic of orders, she never would have come across it. even though she was taken by it on first sight when she drew it from the d-shelf. a white book, slim, modern. just poems, no comments, no dates inside. only later did she discover that hilde domin, the one who wrote it, was born 1909. had lived through two world wars. had been modern in her very own way. and had died just the year ago.

hier, the book was named. here, it would be translated, one of the few cases where the word held the sound and only changed it's outlines while travelling across a border. she tried to think of another word that worked that way, but there didn't seem to be one. rose, she remembered instead. but rose was different. rose remained unchanged in writing, but changed in its pronounciation. a rose is a rose is not a rose, she said, and picked up one of the fallen violet petals. violet, she thought. violett in german. another almost, both in writing and in tone.

~~

silence

Silence like a smile, crept up
Around the corners of the lips of Time
Sighing its way through the hinges of the heart
Seeking for ways to heal the wounded parts
Caught in the deafening rush of the blood
Leaving wet footprints in the murky air
Creating lasting impressions that fade in seconds

Silence like a teardrop, flowed down
Along the riverbed of thoughts
Gushing through the myriad syllables of hatred
Winding its way past the rocks of love
Clinging to the doorways of memories
The sprays paint an outline of anger
With the multifarious hues filling the palette of yesterday
But the silent walls have a different story to tell

Silence like a proud mother, held
Its offspring in the air
Gaps filled with the smell of words
The heavy perfume that is hard to ignore
Yet is lost in the smoke rings of silence
Overpowered in the darkness of the light
Drowned in the loud footsteps of seconds

Silence remains. Silence says. Silence.

- applestar