There are verses on the floor,
Born out of hunger,
There are rhythms to ignore,
If only the mind was younger.
There are books on the table,
To be hung over in the head,
There are mortal affinities,
To be pierced into the heart strings like a threat.
Out of all distractions of life and death,
Music have trapped me in the corner of my bed.
I can’t cry or weave some wings to lie,
I can’t decide the purpose of the play, tonight.
A violin now heads over to the shore,
Vibrations killing the skin and healing the soul,
I shall be frozen by the time it stops,
I shall be immortal without a thought.