Blackboards are chalked today, 

striped and starting to be a gibberish. 

Those feet with black dusts and those eyes crowning for distance from the squared childhood, 

gone far…gone distance, 

just fool’s romanticisms now. 

One man with shallow hairs and a posture like a polar bear was in that afternoon, 

dictating and sponsoring memories for the near future. 

I was romantic…I guess I have always been romantic without the ideas of it…

What’s culture, what’s education, without the flying eyebrows of a still green girl? 

she was there…across the row, 

guiding the rampant boats on her pages, 

I have always been keeping distance from her…it’s necessity for my love. 

And then those bastards… curious bastards… friendly bastards, 

making me more of a active compound…

more of a whistling poet. 

These corridors…these heartbroken wooden benches…these cremations of adulterated sex…

All used to be our morning parades. 

I don’t know why suddenly after having a moral less fuck I am smelling this one day of stretched riot…

It must be one segregated time when I become a poet without writing a word. 

It’s grand…it has the brownie of a past existence, 

it has the capability of taking the nicotines of my thousands cigarettes. 

I am peeled…I am naked and I am seeing the birth of a wave.

……………………………………………………………………..

Painting: Google.