A Margin for a Nomad

I try to keep our basils green
But I am not a hero
And autumn has wrapped its’ shawl around us
And we will never have our coffee together.
You may not know that I don’t like coffee
But I can never forget that you said
It tastes like me
Tense but yet, sweet.
Now I know, coffee is not sweet
And so are your words.

I am not a hero
It’s meaningless to stand alone
When all the stories collapse
What’s our life without a story?
What would I say to my epithets?
Doctrines can’t give us love
Only principles can.

I am not myself anymore
Don’t remind me of my promises
My gushing passions
“Love itself is what’s left over
when being in love has burned away”*
I stand in the rows
Walk down all the ready made phrases
I prefer life beyond philosophies
And death… beyond sour words
But life is not you and I
And the rain writes its’ own poem
Where we are not.

We are two lost souls
Struggling to finish their last dance
While love sits in a dark corner
Waiting for the rain to fall
Wash our gestures
And give us a second chance
To be anyone, anything, but ourselves.

Nomads we will always be
Living in words
With nothing living inside of us
Nothing within
And our search will go on
Find your words and swords
And I’ll be looking for my home
A margin, where words can grow.

* Louise de Bernieres: Captin Corelli’s Mandolin.