Poetry

Twilight song of a cuckoo 
taps the window softly. 
Gothic tree and drooping sky 
humble my thoughts. 
Past was me. 
I will know then 
why your hills turned away my clouds 
by shifting sands. 
 
Was it a colossal guilt of tomorrow? 
Which never wanted to become present 
and enter my house. 
But my memory was sharp 
and days were numbered. 
 
I wanted to invite the death discreetly 
while praising the life and listening to birds 
without dropping the history 
from my crooked fingers. 
 
Between yourself and myself 
a sea was surreptitiously raging. 
The waves were dividing the shores.