Too old for this world, yet too new.

A thousand years old or maybe just a few.

Nothing is left to think about,

Stuck on a surface too shallow,

But still drowning through,

an ocean too blue.

I really don’t know,

What I am supposed to do.

What is supposed to grow,

In a barren desert?

How can the air reflow,

In the lungs of a dead?

How can happiness blow,

When nothing more is felt?

I really don’t know.

Flying in the air,

With the wings being broken.

Reaching for the sun,

Still everything around is frozen.

What else is supposed to be written,

When words are just colliding?

Too old for this world, yet too golden.

A thousand years old or maybe less than a dozen.

A string of light is sprouting in the horizon,

As this ray moves deep into the sea,

Will it reach the blind’s vision?

Or can it pass through his body,

To light the depths of the inside instead of being dim?

Can’t words travel in parallel worlds?

So that a passed away writer can feel like in heaven.

So that I can be too old for this world, yet too new.

A thousand years old or maybe just a few.