No one hears the scream of a muddy water puddle. No one pays heed to a silent mime of raindrops. One stops to admire the crescent moon on a puddle. None stares for long. Stands for long. The crescent is dying. The puddle is reciting. Muddy water is all there is when a taxi passes by. Funeral of a dying crystal, a mimicry by water drops. People or the heavens? The words are afloat, so are the cries. It just floats. A puddle is not deep. A puddle is a puddle. Inanimate. Reflecting the inhumane. People or the heavens? We wouldn’t know. The words are afloat.
(PS : I just had a spontaneous string of thoughts at random, centering a hollow theme. It is in fact very random, my emotions are all over the place just as my mind communicated to me these thoughts. Chaos would but suit more to my mind rather than my words. Concluding point would be, I’m a puddle. Interpretations are up to you.)
Laelia 