Life before the last smile

​Oh yes, the cottony blue phenomenon–endless,  floats above me authoritatively.

And what are those red rays illuminating its authority?

An army of them,  guarding their home.

Home, if it’s appropriate to say.

‘Cause they fail, they die, leaving a bluer–close to black, an ever so sorrowful space.

And yet this space,  threateningly dark and ever so shy, lives on with powers not its own.

The red rays are an array of determination, of hope after life, of divinity in end of existence.

They, if I and you sit down to see, when they are about to dissolve into that teal blue ocean, or when they vanish and appear to be hiding behind a mountain, define horizons. They dominate your color. 

The most beautiful sight–if there can be any such– of ceasing to exist, of ecstacy in foreseeing death, of thoroughness of knowledge about one’s end and yet gracing time. The last, the generous, the gentle smile of simplest fellows above. 

A shortwhile is what I have every day, and yet I’ve seen it only once or twice, the cottony blue space transformed into silk,  gold red. Gold are my hands, gold the water,  gold is the path till I remember walking with my eyes up. 



​There,  under the tree,  is the stone that got its eyes from me. 

It lets you do what you want but its eyes record it all. Think I need to buy it a mouth. 

Its eyes, if ever closed apart from the time when it sleeps, were closed when I saw it crying. It was crying because it fell on its eyes. Wonder what it will say upon getting  mouth.

Now that the stone got its mouth,  it wouldn’t say a word without letting out a crazy laughter. It distracts the students by staring at their hands. It laughs on,  whether children cry or big men fall. 

Its laughter sounds victorious, jumps and falls quick. 

Like the laughter of the king who won a battle after losing many his men. 


It sleeps with its mouth open and passersby throw gibberish in. The stone is heavy, nobody can toss it. It’s not as huge to become a seat. 

The stone is learning to sing. Children are hearing it,  men are scared of it. 

The stone sings even in the dark,  scaring men and women. They call it ghostly stone. They think crushing it would be horrendous. 

So they let it live on, alone under the abandoned tree.