The sun is setting down
behind your back,
with half a promise of coming
And my fingers recite poems
on your bare back,
while you hum songs in the
languages I have never heard of.
The blue of the sky falls
on your pervading hair,
making them a shade of unknown
origins, a shade belonging to surreal worlds.
I wonder if the color of your
hair changes by the day,
like the mood of the earth devoid of
rains for so long.
So you get up.
Pack your bag.
And my heart.
I should go, you say.
Stay; I recite on your lips.
And you let out a sigh which
consume fortunes to witness.
You weave the almost setting sun
in your bun, taking all the light with you.
Do you often keep them tied, I ask.
They carry whispers from the
surreal worlds, in the languages you’ve
never heard of, you say.
Stay; sing me a song.
Next time, you say, with half a promise
of coming back tomorrow.
And I hope the sun to shine on my face
when you unleash it from your hair tomorrow.
Stay; I’d whisper in the air tracing
your silhouette, hoping my words would
find their way through surreal worlds
and convey my message to you,