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It could be
It could be love; a feeble bird
With purple wings and honey sound.
A gentle trill that could be heard
In every single thing around.
Too bad. The little bird was dump
And none of us could hear its song.
Its purple feathers – wet and numb
And so, it couldn’t fly too long.
It could be passion: flame and spark,
To make the feelings boil fast.
It would illuminate the dark
And burn the bodies into dust.
The fire was too shy and dim.
It couldn’t warm but silly hopes.
No blood was boiled by the beam,
Just burnt the wicked and breaking ropes.
It could be friendship: sunny sky
Abounding in eternal rays.
It had to make the envy die
And light the dark and empty days.
But friends we’re not. We simply know
Each other’s face and name. As much.
We have no further way to go
And no more common dreams to watch.
It could be beautiful and strong,
But it was difficult, somehow,
Though in a way it was all wrong
We could be more than we are now.
