I am a paper. Waiting for words:
To turn my loneliness in chords,
To fill these empty lines with rhyme,
With memories that ring through time.
I am a painting. In ink with colour,
In a winter morning of ivory pallor;
My eyes giving no reason to restart,
Fretting fever of your burning heart.
I am just a stranger. To myself,
Into a corner, on the darkest shelf;
February winds mock as I write:
How much I miss you in the night.
Bulgari Ludmila/ Febryary