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Silent Songs
By Huilan
Last night, Rain falls down with an empty heart on the crowded street, Rain falls from so high that my heart was broken badly with agony. The wind outside the room howls, and it was soft yet cruelly passing overin silence. Somewhere in the deep memory a song raising once more:how can you stop the rain from falling down? How can you mend a broken heart? Not yet. No need. Turn back? Bleeding yesterday should be licked in a corner, and be pretend not existed. Not at all. Ever. Never.
Yes the summer night is in a snow-filled cold and it reminds me of a warm momentwhen you wiped my tears off. Me too have lost from your watering eyes; the water tastes like wine, blood, or poison. Whatever. I sunk and dead in a dream,but the shadow of your words keeps me alive. No longer have I raised my eyes outside of the window, and only can sing silently to myself or nobody. Everything nowis tender but grey, just like the color of my hairs. Everything is past, just like you, but not. A smell of love is the smell of rotten fruits, so the smell of sweet death.
June 14, 2008, early morning
More poems, please enter: http://blog.sina.com.cn/huilan1991
Sound of Silence
http://blog.wenxuecity.com/blogview.php?date=200709&postID=8831
*He’s an Irish investor who lives in U.S. He loves my poems so and each time when he read my poems, he send me message back with lines are much more than my poems.
*This is his first poem has ever written in his entire life and he told me he just couldn’t control himself to write a poem after read my poems.
*He asked for my cell phone number and gave me a few rings by saying he will not read my poems anymore because he wrote back to me for hours and has missed an important conference for his business by over-sleeping.
* And then he asks more of my poems to read, especially the heavy and touching ones. I laughed.
By Armand(U.S.)
Wow, every time have read one of your poems, I have to resist throwing myself out the window, onto the hard, cold, unfeeling concrete that lies below, like the way your feelings have grown cold and hard towards me, heehee. I remember a time when the weather didn't exist for people, neither the fiery heat of summer nor the icy blades of winder cutting through the flapping jackets. all the mattered was the embrace, andour love, providing the fire to heat feelings in winter, and the fresh ocean spray to refresh and energize such feeling in summer, I saw that in your peoms, when I saw your eyes, I heard the seagulls squawking at the shore, and the sound of young children shouting with glee as they ran to and fro into and out of the waves, competing with the shoreline birds, searching for the next hapless sand crab to be lunch for their newborn gulls.
But now, it is cold and grey. It is winter, and the cold is overwhelming, There is no color, no sound except the howling wind,or is that the wind howling through my empty heart and soul. The summer of my time, of our time, of anybody’s time, is past, and was no autumn, only the sharp change into this damned, unrelenting winter that makes my heart shiver. But, the thermometer says it is 30 degrees outside, and when I look outside the window, I see the happy children playing in thirst and shorts, and the happy couples, hand in hand, enjoying their summer. But for me, it is winter. An unwelcome winter of the heart, that came too soon, is too cold to bear, and won't go away, no matter how many jackets I try to wrap around my heart. Hahahaha.
I can feel my heart dying of the cold, layer by layer.
Never again I say. The warmth of summer
is not worth the pain of winter…but there is no one
to hear me. My voice is overshadowed and the moaning wind
passing through the empty dying chambers of my heart.
The TV is on, but I cannot hear it. The food is boiling,
but I cannot smell it. The phone is ringing,
and I try to answer, but the handset weight 1000 kilos-
it is too heavy to pick up,
too heavy to talk to anyone, to put on a happy face
and say everything is fine,when they don't care anyway,
and would only be annoyed if I told them of my pain.
They told me not to take a chance on love,
that it was only for the young or for fools,
that an older heart could not take the pain as a young one
that the healing would take too long if ever,
but i ignored them all,
for those precious few moments I am in your lines,
which lasted a lifetime, and yet lasted only a moment
and then you were gone,
and i went from the tanned bronze boy of summer,
to the wilted, dried cabbages of winter
ready to be piled on a rack,
devoid of feeling, of color, of taste, of life
and yet, in the memory of that silent dried cabbage
is the heart of an ocean and a star
a memory so few can even understand,
a moment living in a different world, without a body,
in a world of pure feelings and passion
a world in which time stood still for love
but now, i realize the cut has been too deep
they were right, this pain will never heal, i can never
hope to love again, nor even take the chance; i will be
damaged goods forever, useless to the world and
to myself-there is no point to continuing
no point to pretending,
no point to denying
nor pointless hoping for a miracle.
I have already had my miracle, and that was, perhaps us?
That miracle has passed, and no man has a right to
even dream of more than one miracle,
when so few can even know one
no. no. it is over. now, all that remains is to open the window
feel the blast of icy cold summer air
and step out into the nothingness i already feel in my heart.
The cold hard street so far below cannot be as cold and
hard as my already dead heart.
No, now only my body lives on, with no purpose.
For what is the purpose of a body besides a vehicle
to nourish and transport the heart and soul.
So, if those are dead, the body should join. Yes.
It is time. In a moment this pain will be gone,
and I can rest. The torture and tears will end.
The hole in my heart won't matter.
The face in the mirror, so gray and empty,
won't matter. Nothing matters.
My time is passed. There are others
who will keep the flames of love alive
in the world. I am no longer needed.
By Dharam(New Zealand)
Read your poem. Your poetry is the poetry of the heart. It is voice of a heart. Thank you for sharing, more so for my face you have never seen ... more so, for my voice you have never heard ... Your poems are beautiful, and I even though you may protest, they arise from depths deep ... they go beyond 'fun reading' ... for they are from the realm where life lives in its most pristine form. Your life...