Richard Strauss' Metamorphosen
on strings-
takes me far,
very far away
from the heat and dust,
from pain,
evenings, full of sadness.
It rains there,
and the soft swishing sound
as the trees move
in the wind.
Poems, most of the times
they fail miserably
but I keep on writing
one after the other.
It gives me peace,
a strange pleasure,
to write failed poems
because you know
the good ones
even before you write them.
the best ones go unwritten
we never ever write it,
might it put a stray streak
on the painting
in our mind.
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