Apparently I didn't post this, forgot about it

Imperfection?

This image is so bleak
Yet so majestic
The ode of dying nature, echoes through eternity
Leaving us to our mortality

Though the river's flow might ever last
The rational mind is an outcast
We cripple under the spell of time
And our memories are buried by the past

Flowing gentle yet so vigorous
The river of life
We're so small to this place so enormous
Condemned to the endless strife

The imperfection is so bleak
Irrationality is the only thing majestic
A world painted in black and white
No guidance, no light

Written by whatsacow on 04.01.2011 at 05:33

The girl with the watering can, restoring life to the dead,
Echoing vibrance into those that she touches;
And igniting fire in the crushed and desolate.
Her stare is cold, yet hypnotic,
Her pose is strong, and yet she is frail.
She bares her gifts, and sings hymns of the equinox,
A time of new life, love, and loss.
Tragedy still looms, but with her, it's bearable.
With her, it means something...
The girl with the watering can, running nearly on empty,
How many can she save before she withers herself?
Before that contageous smile fades,
And she returns from the dust which she came.

Ok time for some reviews. I've been battling my depression really hard this week, and it's been really difficult to do anything constructive. Seems like it's going to take some time to get things set right anyways. Well, on to the poem.


Wow this poem is a breath of fresh air, really. Something positive and admiring. In a way, I can really relate to the girl in this poem. Sometimes you give so much and don't receive anything back for so long that you yourself wither, as you said here. A really amazing poem. You did great. I would only tweak the last line, due to a minute discrepancy I spotted that you probably missed. I myself would have missed it had I written it, so don't feel bad at all. "And she returns from the dust which she came. " should be : And she returns TO the dust FROM WHICH she came.

Great job otherwise. You're starting to show some variance in theme here, which I quite like. Keep up the awesome work!

Written by Cyroth on 06.01.2011 at 01:37

Apparently I didn't post this, forgot about it

Imperfection?

This image is so bleak
Yet so majestic
The ode of dying nature, echoes through eternity
Leaving us to our mortality

Though the river's flow might ever last
The rational mind is an outcast
We cripple under the spell of time
And our memories are buried by the past

Flowing gentle yet so vigorous
The river of life
We're so small to this place so enormous
Condemned to the endless strife

The imperfection is so bleak
Irrationality is the only thing majestic
A world painted in black and white
No guidance, no light

Hmmmm. Is this one of your older poems?

The first three stanzas are so perfectly formed. Each line carries on to continue the story of the previous line, but the last stanza seems a bit off... like you just got lost and didn't quite know how to end the poem. This happens a lot actually. Or did you continue the poem after a day or an hour? Either way, for some reason it seemed like a struggle to fit. The stanza on its own is quite good, though, it just didn't seem to fit with the rest of the poem for whatever reason. This is just my opinion anyways.

I did, however, quite enjoy the imagery you used here. It's not as crisp as other poems I have seen you write, but is still quite nice. Good job!

At any rate, keep up the good work, dear poet. Until I see you next...


Raging Dreamer

@Raging Dreamer: it's about 1 month old, it was written and finished normally, I guess the last stanza is kinda off compared to the others. Oh well, more poems, more practice, much better

Written by Raging Dreamer on 08.01.2011 at 08:55

Written by whatsacow on 04.01.2011 at 05:33

The girl with the watering can, restoring life to the dead,
Echoing vibrance into those that she touches;
And igniting fire in the crushed and desolate.
Her stare is cold, yet hypnotic,
Her pose is strong, and yet she is frail.
She bares her gifts, and sings hymns of the equinox,
A time of new life, love, and loss.
Tragedy still looms, but with her, it's bearable.
With her, it means something...
The girl with the watering can, running nearly on empty,
How many can she save before she withers herself?
Before that contageous smile fades,
And she returns from the dust which she came.

Ok time for some reviews. I've been battling my depression really hard this week, and it's been really difficult to do anything constructive. Seems like it's going to take some time to get things set right anyways. Well, on to the poem.


Wow this poem is a breath of fresh air, really. Something positive and admiring. In a way, I can really relate to the girl in this poem. Sometimes you give so much and don't receive anything back for so long that you yourself wither, as you said here. A really amazing poem. You did great. I would only tweak the last line, due to a minute discrepancy I spotted that you probably missed. I myself would have missed it had I written it, so don't feel bad at all. "And she returns from the dust which she came. " should be : And she returns TO the dust FROM WHICH she came.

Great job otherwise. You're starting to show some variance in theme here, which I quite like. Keep up the awesome work!

Thanks for the positive reviews. I seriously hope you get better soon. I know what it's like to battle with depression, so you aren't alone. Just hope it doesn't get the best of you.

Written by whatsacow on 08.01.2011 at 15:01

Written by Raging Dreamer on 08.01.2011 at 08:55

Written by whatsacow on 04.01.2011 at 05:33

The girl with the watering can, restoring life to the dead,
Echoing vibrance into those that she touches;
And igniting fire in the crushed and desolate.
Her stare is cold, yet hypnotic,
Her pose is strong, and yet she is frail.
She bares her gifts, and sings hymns of the equinox,
A time of new life, love, and loss.
Tragedy still looms, but with her, it's bearable.
With her, it means something...
The girl with the watering can, running nearly on empty,
How many can she save before she withers herself?
Before that contageous smile fades,
And she returns from the dust which she came.

Ok time for some reviews. I've been battling my depression really hard this week, and it's been really difficult to do anything constructive. Seems like it's going to take some time to get things set right anyways. Well, on to the poem.


Wow this poem is a breath of fresh air, really. Something positive and admiring. In a way, I can really relate to the girl in this poem. Sometimes you give so much and don't receive anything back for so long that you yourself wither, as you said here. A really amazing poem. You did great. I would only tweak the last line, due to a minute discrepancy I spotted that you probably missed. I myself would have missed it had I written it, so don't feel bad at all. "And she returns from the dust which she came. " should be : And she returns TO the dust FROM WHICH she came.

Great job otherwise. You're starting to show some variance in theme here, which I quite like. Keep up the awesome work!

Thanks for the positive reviews. I seriously hope you get better soon. I know what it's like to battle with depression, so you aren't alone. Just hope it doesn't get the best of you.

Eh I've been duking it out with good ole' depression for 30 years now. Just takes some time. Thanks for the kind words of support.

Heavy rain falls through me
like i dont exist
The memory of mysealf keep fading
like i never existed
like my reflections was
someone else staring at me....

knowing only for black and white
so much new colors are confusing me
So much manirs and costums
only i can't comperhand
In world of mechanic freedom
Me a child of flame had faded....

I tried to experiment with this poem and wanted to really put out very strong and vivid images.

Portrait of perfection

I scatter my dreams in the night eternal
My bride of darkness
Accompanies me in our waltz of madness
The ballroom vivid, yet so carnal

Creating and molding your portrait of perfection
I craft the atom of attraction
Skin resembles the snow of winter
You both torture me the same

Your hair, your blood
Both flow down your shoulders
Both colored to rhyme like dead
Sleepless souls to our grave, sleepless bodies to our bed

Your eyes resemble the moon and the sky
Night takes shape before your black eyes
And so it ends with your lips
When you silence them with finger tips

Written by ANGEL REAPER on 10.01.2011 at 00:45

Heavy rain falls through me
like i dont exist
The memory of mysealf keep fading
like i never existed
like my reflections was
someone else staring at me....

knowing only for black and white
so much new colors are confusing me
So much manirs and costums
only i can't comperhand
In world of mechanic freedom
Me a child of flame had faded....

Well time to do some commenting.... I have tried several times today but someone in this house, who will remain unnamed, keeps distracting me every time I get started...How annoying... lol...

At any rate, I read this poem several days ago but was unable to comment due to my own moodiness. Your grammar and spelling need some improvement, but I understand this because you do not speak English as your native tongue, so it's nothing unusual at all. The meaning of this poem, however, is very clear, and I identify with that quite easily. I think a lot of us feel this way, in fact, like we were born in the wrong time period, like we don't belong, longing for a past time, when things were simpler and more real, and life had more meaning. You speak about technologies and manners, and yes, I can identify with that. Oftentimes, of late, we feel like we're not allowed to BE who we ARE, and that is perhaps the most depressing thing of all.

Anyways, good job on this, aside from what I mentioned earlier. It had some good imagery and metaphorical value there. Hope to hear back from you soon with another poem!

Written by Cyroth on 12.01.2011 at 02:11

I tried to experiment with this poem and wanted to really put out very strong and vivid images.

Portrait of perfection

I scatter my dreams in the night eternal
My bride of darkness
Accompanies me in our waltz of madness
The ballroom vivid, yet so carnal

Creating and molding your portrait of perfection
I craft the atom of attraction
Skin resembles the snow of winter
You both torture me the same

Your hair, your blood
Both flow down your shoulders
Both colored to rhyme like dead
Sleepless souls to our grave, sleepless bodies to our bed

Your eyes resemble the moon and the sky
Night takes shape before your black eyes
And so it ends with your lips
When you silence them with finger tips

ohhh I really like this one.

You did quite well on the imagery. It's very sharp and gave me chills, imagining a ballroom full of dancers, twirling like madmen... Your description of the woman was very vivid. I loved it! Then we go to a candlelit bedroom and ... *sigh* damn... I miss feeling like that...

Really excellent job on this. You've started opening up your talent here. Your next step might be add in more sensations, as you teased me there with the silenced lips with fingertips.... by the way, fingertips is one word, not two, just so you can write it more easily next time. What I mean by sensations is the feeling of her warm breath on your neck, making your hair rise up in response, or the feeling of that finger tracing your face or chest... the cold or warmth of her kiss, the taste of her lips, etc... of course, this would mean the poem would be longer if you wanted to express emotions, imagery, and sensations all in one poem, but then that's good if you want to do that. You're really developing into a poet to be reckoned with. I simply love watching you guys blossom like this. It brings out such passion for the art and from the soul... And passion is something I am desperate for, so in a way, you're feeding my soul with these things... And I simply love it more than you can imagine.

Keep up the most excellent work, dear one. I can't wait to see what you will write next. You just keep getting better and better. Let that madness flow, it's what feeds the artist the visions for his art! Even Poe said to be bourgeois in life and mad in the art. And he's right about that! Simply beautiful!!


Raging Dreamer

SHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!! Don't everybody post at once!

This is an old work, I'm starting exams and so I don't know when I'll write something new

The silent room

Bereavement in the silent room
The door's shut and there's a knock.
Time has passed, I felt the shock
Of the impending doom

It's been some years since this room
Has heard the noise of footsteps on the floor
And the sound of the creaking door.
...Forgotten no more

The room was empty.
The memories have been lost
Covered in dust,
And time...

Yet they could not see this shallow person, it was me
It was my ghost
Unaware that I was lost
Haunting this silent room.

Sorry that I don' t have more time to contribute more to this (amazing) thread. Right now I don't have a lot more to bring, but I recently opened a new blog (http://running-after-the-rainbow.blogspot.com) where I intend to publish (almost) everything I write (poetry, prose, in French, in English, in any language I may want to use).
I'll try to post something here soon -- if I get some inspiration.

The result of drunk night,fight with my best friend ,and one girl...
writing here from piece of paper,concept is here but raw as hell...
So here it goes:

In this winter,cold day
I still somehow can hear a cry
Voice that stops the heart
Echoes and resides ...

Its the call for the damned
Perfect mix of whales' song and pain
Winds once spoken me...
Of her angel eyes...


and also
for this i wrote the scariest piece of music i ever wrote...

It's Ok

It is OK if I die, there is no need to cry
Those tears at my funeral and silently dancing on my grave

It is OK if I live, there is no need to smile
And hug me with a knife in your hand and stab me in my beck

It is OK if I can not breathe, there is no need to kiss me
Your tongue filling my lungs with gasoline and making me burn

It is OK if I can not run, there no need to wait for me
And lead me to fields where there is no way of returning

It is OK if I can not speak, there no need to talk in my place
And later use your words to make your own game

It is OK if I can not sleep, there is no need to sleep with me
And with your look make me wake up happy in eternity

It is OK, if I can not do anything right, there no need to scream at me
I like the way it goes, seems my life will have a tragic ending

I came to the realization that writing poetry is getting harder and harder :/ I've been writing some good and bad prose lately, but poetry is a bit more difficult for some reason. I will however share this with you, which is the last poem that I've written. Yes, I know, the typography is quite special.


I Saw your World torn apart by the Hate
I Saw the pallid halo of your grey lives
In my unseen Dreams, far beyond the Edge
I Saw what lies behind the dark Gates

Don't you Hear - don't you hear their cry?
Don't you Feel the Heartbeat of the Earth?
All around - the Whispers in the Trees
Don't you Know that you have gone blind?

I Sing with the Forest, and I Sing with the River
I Dance in the Fire, and I Sleep with the Moon
My Blood is Sap, and Stream, and Gold
I Create as I Speak, and I Create as I Breathe

I Taste the Wine from the Cup of Freedom
I Savour the Drink from the Chalice of Life
And Life flows in me, I Was, I Am and will Be
I Walk on the Path that will lead me Home

I Dream my world as I step on the Ship
I Sail away to my secret Abode
Flying through the Rainbow, lying in the Sun
I Join the Angel, the Dragon
[and the lonely Wolf

Just finished writing a new one

Death, embrace or do me apart

My last words seem far from sight.
Past grips and seize, tears me apart.
Devouring will and mind
Creating this mirthless life.

Oh, when tears will fall to drown
I'll wash away my earthbound.
Cold as the soil below,
One with these hollow trees.

And how much do I treasure this life
And how much do I care
When death brings relief and end to despair
?when all fade to nowhere

So cries are shed for a measly token of happiness
Paving this life sealed in thin layers of misery.
With illusions filling the gaps of a half empty heart
Death, embrace or do me apart!

Written by Cyroth on 20.01.2011 at 10:31

This is an old work, I'm starting exams and so I don't know when I'll write something new

The silent room

Bereavement in the silent room
The door's shut and there's a knock.
Time has passed, I felt the shock
Of the impending doom

It's been some years since this room
Has heard the noise of footsteps on the floor
And the sound of the creaking door.
...Forgotten no more

The room was empty.
The memories have been lost
Covered in dust,
And time...

Yet they could not see this shallow person, it was me
It was my ghost
Unaware that I was lost
Haunting this silent room.

sorry for my extended leave. I've been sick (for weeks) and very ... VERY... overworked. Things are starting to settle down a little finally, so I need to get back to what I love.


hmmmmm....forgive me if i'm wrong in my interpretation. Seems like perhaps this was written about a person who died in their sleep, from their point of view. At least that is my interpretation. I had to read it three times. In this poem, time seems to have slowed down just a bit for the reader. Very interesting. My favorite lines were:

And the sound of the creaking door.
...Forgotten no more

That's just epic man! I could almost hear the sound of a creaking door in the silence. I love to read things that do that to me.

Keep up the good work. I may only do one poem a night until I get caught up. I hope no one minds. I'm just trying not to get too overwhelmed mentally or emotionally. The last few weeks have taken a lot out of me. Keep up the excellent writing, guys. I'll try to come back tomorrow night (if I don't have editing work waiting on me after I get off my other job) and comment on one or two more, depending on how I feel. See you all soon!

Take care.

Raging Dreamer

Hero's hands bathed in innocent blood,
spirit frayed and jaded...
corrupt in his nature and breaking the hearts
of his admirers.
He dies slowly, his torment apparent,
The decisions he makes self justified.
He hides behind his mask of benevolence,
While inflicting his malevolence on those fragile and trusting.
The people looked up to him, a white knight...
Who's clothes have turned crimson.
Men, women, children are lost;
Their savior forever a memory.

Written by Raging Dreamer on 14.02.2011 at 06:50

Written by Cyroth on 20.01.2011 at 10:31

The silent room

sorry for my extended leave. I've been sick (for weeks) and very ... VERY... overworked. Things are starting to settle down a little finally, so I need to get back to what I love.


hmmmmm....forgive me if i'm wrong in my interpretation. Seems like perhaps this was written about a person who died in their sleep, from their point of view. At least that is my interpretation. I had to read it three times. In this poem, time seems to have slowed down just a bit for the reader. Very interesting. My favorite lines were:

And the sound of the creaking door.
...Forgotten no more

That's just epic man! I could almost hear the sound of a creaking door in the silence. I love to read things that do that to me.

Keep up the good work. I may only do one poem a night until I get caught up. I hope no one minds. I'm just trying not to get too overwhelmed mentally or emotionally. The last few weeks have taken a lot out of me. Keep up the excellent writing, guys. I'll try to come back tomorrow night (if I don't have editing work waiting on me after I get off my other job) and comment on one or two more, depending on how I feel. See you all soon!

Take care.

Raging Dreamer

Actually I was thinking of the state of a ghost, that you as one are not aware that you died, but yet you sit in this room without confronting conscious the fact that you've been sitting for years in it. I think the idea came to me from the movie "The others", where this woman and her kids thought they were haunted by ghosts, just to finally realize that they were the actual ghosts of the house haunting it.

Wilkinson - I like your poem, it remainds me some medieval poetry some story like song about Roland and Nieberlunger song(or what it calls in english) maybe its lil diferebt but still some dark medieval fielings you criate whit your last poem

Soul - no hard feelings , its still good work, but somehow weeker how other of your works, but same whit me there ghood, bad and not so good, every poem is good, but some better, some not so, no hard feelings man , but maybe I dunno beckground of idea

WAC - dude exelent it could be awesome duneral doom lyric, some slowly guitars, creapy feelings, and slowly sinfging this song

Written by Bad English on 15.02.2011 at 00:41

Wilkinson - I like your poem, it remainds me some medieval poetry some story like song about Roland and Nieberlunger song(or what it calls in english) maybe its lil diferebt but still some dark medieval fielings you criate whit your last poem

Soul - no hard feelings , its still good work, but somehow weeker how other of your works, but same whit me there ghood, bad and not so good, every poem is good, but some better, some not so, no hard feelings man , but maybe I dunno beckground of idea

WAC - dude exelent it could be awesome duneral doom lyric, some slowly guitars, creapy feelings, and slowly sinfging this song

Written by ANGEL REAPER on 24.01.2011 at 18:34

The result of drunk night,fight with my best friend ,and one girl...
writing here from piece of paper,concept is here but raw as hell...
So here it goes:

In this winter,cold day
I still somehow can hear a cry
Voice that stops the heart
Echoes and resides ...

Its the call for the damned
Perfect mix of whales' song and pain
Winds once spoken me...
Of her angel eyes...


and also
for this i wrote the scariest piece of music i ever wrote...

Would love to hear the music to this. It does seem to need a little polishing as far as lyrics, but overall they're pretty damn interesting. The only line i really have a problem with is 'winds once spoken me'. All else seems pretty solid though. What genre of music do you play?

Written by Bad English on 15.02.2011 at 00:41

Wilkinson - I like your poem, it remainds me some medieval poetry some story like song about Roland and Nieberlunger song(or what it calls in english) maybe its lil diferebt but still some dark medieval fielings you criate whit your last poem

Soul - no hard feelings , its still good work, but somehow weeker how other of your works, but same whit me there ghood, bad and not so good, every poem is good, but some better, some not so, no hard feelings man , but maybe I dunno beckground of idea

WAC - dude exelent it could be awesome duneral doom lyric, some slowly guitars, creapy feelings, and slowly sinfging this song

Yeah, maybe I should sell it to Thergothon. But Maybe I should translate it into Finnish first lol.

Minds eye sewn shut, no conscience or consciousness.
Dwelling physically, but seperated mentally and emotionally.
Slowly shrouding all my thoughts...
This chaos breeds mental lethargy,
emotions run still and tear themselves apart.
The hopeless void has become a chasm,
and it's collapsing in on itself.
So hard to breathe in this self made tomb...
You call it destruction, I call it art;

Written by Raging Dreamer on 15.02.2011 at 07:32

Written by ANGEL REAPER on 24.01.2011 at 18:34

The result of drunk night,fight with my best friend ,and one girl...
writing here from piece of paper,concept is here but raw as hell...
So here it goes:

In this winter,cold day
I still somehow can hear a cry
Voice that stops the heart
Echoes and resides ...

Its the call for the damned
Perfect mix of whales' song and pain
Winds once spoken me...
Of her angel eyes...


and also
for this i wrote the scariest piece of music i ever wrote...

Would love to hear the music to this. It does seem to need a little polishing as far as lyrics, but overall they're pretty damn interesting. The only line i really have a problem with is 'winds once spoken me'. All else seems pretty solid though. What genre of music do you play?

I play old school black metal ,but sometimes I write more depressive,cold,dark stuff ...
BTW music is like Hellhammer's slow tracks,like "Buried and Forgotten "...
I know polishing is yet to come ,and hopefully I will finish this one in a month or so ,just in time for the second demo recording....

Written by Bad English on 03.02.2011 at 01:57

It's Ok

It is OK if I die, there is no need to cry
Those tears at my funeral and silently dancing on my grave

It is OK if I live, there is no need to smile
And hug me with a knife in your hand and stab me in my beck

It is OK if I can not breathe, there is no need to kiss me
Your tongue filling my lungs with gasoline and making me burn

It is OK if I can not run, there no need to wait for me
And lead me to fields where there is no way of returning

It is OK if I can not speak, there no need to talk in my place
And later use your words to make your own game

It is OK if I can not sleep, there is no need to sleep with me
And with your look make me wake up happy in eternity

It is OK, if I can not do anything right, there no need to scream at me
I like the way it goes, seems my life will have a tragic ending

Wow! Bad English! Aside from the spelling mistakes and the need for mild polishing, this poem is a bit on the epic side. Very emotional, very beautiful. It has that air of sadness and finality, yet it's peaceful and accepting of whatever comes. You really outdid yourself. I simply love it! It reminds me a little bit of the poem I recently wrote and posted on my blog in the way it feels to me when I read both poems. Excellent job, really. I'm very proud of you. Should you wish to publish this one anywhere, let me know. I can polish it for you. Would love to see more like this one. I know from conversing with you that many of the elements here are very personal and speak from experience. Great job! Take a bow!

Autumn.
The calm before the storm.
Polishing up nature's death bed.
Twilight.
The dwindling of light,
the dwindling of hope.
Winter.
The death of beauty.
The cold embrace of hostility.
The ground covered in white, hearts covered in black
hands covered in red...
Hearts frozen, they shatter.
The shards pierce...
Evening.
When the world is in darkness.
They cannot see, they run in ignorance,
But not in bliss...
Fear.
Fear of the unknown.
Fear of the darkness.
Fear of death.
It's all the same.

WAO awesome man awesome, but yiou bring me deprseion it shood be spring and summer, but in your side its perfect realy deep touch, good way playw hit works, each line perfectly fits in to poetry awesome I love it it ,

RD Thank's its eprsonal and its deep, I mean literaly all waht I wrote there

Here is a poem of an Iranian poet named Sohrab Sepehri the name of this song is beyond the seas(it's translated):

I'll put up a boat
And I set it free off the shore
I'll let it take me away from this eerie land,
where nobody calls up the sleeping heroes
from the midst of their long, lonely trance.

I'll put up a boat,
and I set it free off the shore;
a boat with no net, a boat with no seine,
with my heart cleansed of wish for pearl.

I'll sail away on the tides,
I'll sing all along the ride.

Neither the blues of the deeps,
Nor the mermaids, the natives of the seas
will captivate me from my solitary glide
I'll move on with pride.

I'll sail away on the tides,
I'll sing all along the ride:

"I'll leave this Eerie Land behind;
Its men failed to recall the tales of their legends,
Its women were not as luscious as clusters of grape,
Its mirrors evaded from celebration of the shapes.
I did not see a torch,
I did not see a loch."

I shall sail away,
I am tired of the reign of opaque panes,
Now it's time for the verse of the glass.


I'll sail away on the tides
I'll sing all along the ride:

"Beyond the seas,
There is another land;
Its windows open to the virtues of the lights
On its roofs, doves constantly gaze at the soar of human mind
Its children walk with their backpacks full of faith and trust."

"Beyond the seas,
There is another land;
People there, they care:
for the airs of a gentle hill,
for the feel of brief dream.

Its soil listens to the song of your soul,
Its breeze carries the scent of tales of flight.

"Beyond the seas,
There is another land;
Its dawn is white, clear and vast,
alike the freshness of the day's first sight,
Its poets are heirs of the water, wind and light."

Beyond the seas,
There is another land:

I shall put up a boat,
I will put up a boat.

This is another Sohrab Sepehri's song named "The Address":

"Where is the friend's house?," the rider asked in the twilight.
Heaven paused;
The passerby bestowed the flood of light on his lips to darkness of sands
And pointed to a poplar and said:

"Near the tree,
Is a garden-line greener than God's dream
Where love is bluer than the feathers of honesty.
Walk to the end of the lane which emerges from behind puberty,
Then turn towards the flower of solitude;
Two steps to the flower,
Stay by the eternal mythological fountain of earth
where a transparent fear will visit you.
In the flowing intimacy of the space you will hear a rustling sound:
You will see a child
Who has ascended a tall plane tree to pick up chicks from the nest of light.
Ask him:
Where is the friend's house?