Me begins to speak wearing another face of transience The words are of moment; mingled violence that subsequent to words, love, and calmness Then the Wisdom swings little as bird out of the sense of incomprehensiblness and must not be understood's Me notes off its present as a wind, that's being touched by its feathers Which is; Killing of words is comfortable to feathers, Another wet kiss of you just started to rain heavily, leaves the pleasure of being wordless on the great river blood of my killed sparrow words, mingled into the great river as an aroma as an end all the colours, meant to be painted my new portrait were spread In the secret tiny fingers of this midnight. Until depleted and died in complete, who hugged me tightly was you, the night wrapped with cold, dark and the love
அலைந்து திரிபவனின் சொற்கள் | Words of a Wanderer