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  • Day39

    I Am Your Cemetery

    February 8, 2020 in Bulgaria ⋅ ⛅ 1 °C

    The poems spill out of my lips as if by a force of their own. The words come to me in flocks and then leave just as suddenly, like migrating birds. I am only the bed of water where they stop and rest on their way to warmer lands. When I start a poem, I never know beforehand what I’m going to say. It could be long or it could be short. I don’t plan it. And when the poem is over, I’m quiet again. I live in silence - as Mawlana, Rumi, said. And no one can understand what drive these words to be laid on paper, and why these exact words and not others🤨Read more