It is time..it is time..
To write those letters..those selected words..
Yet I am not writing..
As between the jingles of daily life and shadowed emotions..
As between the kept words and broken promises..
As within the invitation of Spring festivals and my unintentional rejection..
As I walk with cold eyes between the masked and taunting faces..
As I smile like a perfect corporate and work on with a hollow identity..
As each night I cry with painless tears of silence..
Scratching away in harsh to open the closed doors..
As I stand alone in the roof within a shimmering light of the moon..
As I search questiones whose answers everyone suppose to know..
And then I laugh..with whims of a careless poet..
The moonlit silky wind kiss me at that very moment..
A night flower greets me with her virgin smell..
The night bird whistles along the call of the night train..
The designs of broken fragments of shadows of black and white..
And then everything pass by..
Another wind pass by..
The faint sound of the sleeping world..
Like untouched mysticism..
And I suddenly realise that I alone standing..
Like the first primitive soul of the primitive earth..
And it is time..
The first word..
My lips opened..
And through the nemesis of wanderlust souls..
I wrote almost in trembling fingers..
The first letter of the first word..
Of the first poetry..
It is time..it is time..it is time....