Notes Left on a Mountain #5
Chilling sighs of pine trees;
Their spines rustling with the breeze,
Filling small paths with echoes of wandering.
Towards the green's end,
Souls are carried up to the mountains,
With their heavy scent guiding the way.
Thin air caresses rough stones;
Dark colours turn into greyish wastelands,
And the still horizon becomes weary.
Reaching up,
Looking down,
Feeling everything
In between the sky and valley.
I cannot write in the stillness of life.
My ink must be drawn from chaos
And utter difficulty.
The page must tremble in unsteady hands,
While the lips quiver words of unrest —
Truth lies in uneven lines.
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All the things that happened to us
Are like roaring oceans.
When the awareness of life
Turns into the awareness of being alive,
We become what we write about,
Sharing each other's words to tell about.
We turn into ghosts like the falling leaves.
Ending and letting go are not the same.
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Uneven ghosts pave the pathway of a sinner;
Yet, I walk by alleys and chapels without looking up to saints.
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I don’t know how to end a war I was born into;
how to end a conflict and a fight that I don’t understand even the people say I am on their side;
What is the wrong one and how can I end this?
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We become numb ourselves while the world calls it a tragedy.
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We all suffer our causes
yet not everyone calls our life a tragedy.
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Poetry is enough for a soul in pain.
Love would only heighten the senses and destroy the illusions of it.
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We are our own tragedies.
The people we love seemingly are only endings that we prefer before the curtain falls on its own accord.
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While we haunt ourselves, we become part of others.
With all our broken pieces, we are gathered in mosaics—
reflecting every careless smile, echoing every careless word.
We become them eventually,
in the way we live and survive each night.
Ghosts, bohemian wallpapers, and shiny crystal whiskey glasses,
used by them—hauntingly beautiful, collected, and far behind.
And after all this, nothing of ourselves remains.
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How the pale green leaves press upon the gray mountain silhouettes,
I saw mortality inside myself,
inside my own family.
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I always knew the mountains would take something from me one day.
I wrote about their fine lines, their graves, and their shades.
Then, one day, I looked up upon the gray—
it takes everything and then nothing,
even if you offer them everything.
You can’t survive it,
you live with it—
in small pieces,
small steps,
small moments.
All along, it takes you,
survives you—
you’ll never understand it.
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Sometimes you just have to let things go,
so that they can fall out of place
and grow in the right one.
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My kind of love is made for the stage,
untouchable and unbroken;
its fate is to be doomed in repetition,
in the most beautiful form of art.
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Walking away
from someone you love
doesn’t break you—
it changes you
into someone else.
With each step,
you feel yourself losing
something—forever.
And it will never be the same—
not tomorrow, not even in ten years.
You have to live with the person
you are now
and forget the two
you left behind back then:
The one you loved
and the one you once were—
they are gone.
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A heartbreak won’t kill your love—
the pain that causes it does.
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In this world, you can’t carry your love on your sleeves—
that’s why we hold it in the cages of our ribs.
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Pain changes everything —
even the way we love.
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For time washed over my scars
like the waves cure the shore.
Your words drowning the ocean
by wanting every last drop from it.
And the ink turned my blood
into the highest sacrifice.
Wounds turning into words
and bleeding out your name.
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A soul is a monstrous thing,
weaker than the heart
yet stronger than the mind.
What you can’t give your heart,
feed your soul with—
and reveal everything hidden.
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And the rain washed all the guilt from my hands—
finally watering the flowers that bloomed underneath for all this time.
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In this life, you don’t get many choices.
Real choices.
Meaningful choices.
So once one of these comes, embrace it with all life and consequences.
Make something out of it.
Make it count.
It’s that simple—
it’s not the right or wrong choice you made,
it’s about the opportunity.
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