World Wind

Millions of years ago, a baby of wind, whose birth had been eagerly awaited by his parents and the entire population of the wind village, was born. It was said that the wind baby could change the life of the wind village to be better. It was known from the characteristics of the mother when she was pregnant with the wind baby. Wind mother never complained, felt angry, or damaged anything when she was pregnant. whereas, it’s common or even becomes habit if a pregnant mother with the wind baby would damage the wind village.

So, when knowing that the mother was different, the father then questioned the wind king. However, the wind king unexpectedly cried and congratulated the father of the wind. The father was in confusion because he did not understand what the king meant. He then ventured to get an explanation. Unfortunately, the king was too touched to respond to the questions. The king went to his room.

The father went home with a big question. The question that should be answered and become clear even made him more confused. He then told his wife and the villagers what he had heard from the king of the wind. Hearing this, the villagers immediately cheered and rejoiced. Many of them even congratulate the young couple, the mother and the father of wind, directly. They also said that they rejoice in the birth of the baby. Besides, they would also keep the mother's pregnancy and waited for the wind baby’s birth.

Finally, on that day, the awaited baby was born. The residents of the wind village welcome the baby with full of emotion and joy. They believe that the baby would bring luck to them. So, on that day, the wind village was very crowded and full of light and joy. The villagers held a big party. The wind king was invited to welcome the baby. However, the king did not come. There were other reasons making him not able to get out of the palace. A palace guard said that the wind king were sick and crying.

Years passed, the baby grew up with love of his mother. However, the expectation of the villagers was like a pseudo thing or even disappeared by time. The wind baby grew into a weak child, wihtout any strength. In fact, the wind baby could not do anything. He was silent and could not play like the others . Paralyzed. He could smile only. His smile was only able to move one or two reeds, nothing more than that.

Every night, the wind mother cried. She felt very sorry for his son. Moreover, she felt helpless when the villager did not want to know her family anymore. Happiness and beauty of living in the world in his eyes vanished.

-to be continued

A response for listening to the poem ‘The World Is a Beautiful Place’ by Lawrence Ferlinghetti

Rainfall

I don't, actually, know to write because I can't, actually, write. However, just now I've decided to begin, again, making a note. Well, making a note for all things that had begun in my life was a wrong thing if you know. But. But you don't even know a rising sun nor even look at the rainfall. Now, I am seeing the rainfall. It's too much to just imagine in your little brain. Rainfall. when I see them, I see your eyes there, that's why I just wanna see rainfall now.

The Waste Land

THE BURIAL OF THE DEAD
by
T. S. Eliot

April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.
Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee
With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,
And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,
And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.
Bin gar keine Russin, stamm’ aus Litauen, echt deutsch.
And when we were children, staying at the archduke’s,
My cousin’s, he took me out on a sled,
And I was frightened. He said, Marie,
Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
In the mountains, there you feel free.
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.
What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
Frisch weht der Wind
Der Heimat zu.
Mein Irisch Kind,
Wo weilest du?
‘You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;
‘They called me the hyacinth girl.’
Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden,
Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not
Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither
Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,
Looking into the heart of light, the silence.
Od’ und leer das Meer.
Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante,
Had a bad cold, nevertheless
Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe,
With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she,
Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor,
(Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!)
Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks,
The lady of situations.
Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel,
And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card,
Which is blank, is something he carries on his back,
Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find
The Hanged Man. Fear death by water.
I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring.
Thank you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone,
Tell her I bring the horoscope myself:
One must be so careful these days.
Unreal City,
Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,
A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,
I had not thought death had undone so many.
Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,
And each man fixed his eyes before his feet.
Flowed up tbe hill and down King William Street,
To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours
With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.
There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying ‘Stetson!
‘You who were with me in the ships at Mylae!
‘That corpse you planted last year in your garden,
‘Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?
‘Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?
‘Oh keep the Dog far hence, that’s friend to men,
‘Or with his nails he’ll dig it up again!
‘You! hypocrite lecteur! — mon semblable, — mon frère!’

Soul

Zia was listening to his favourite song when his soul went out of his body again. He was hovering, seeing a lot of things he had never seen before. His soul was frantically looking for another soul around, looking in bushes, behind the moon, in the dark of night, at the end of the road, under the bridge, at the bus stop, in the rose garden, in empty buildings and in every place he had ever visited.

At that time, he also went to the hospital. He wished there was someone who could accompany him and chatted with him. Yet as usual, there was no soul that separated from the body. The soul of a man returned directly to his body with the end of a song he was listening to,.

She
She, oh she

He woke up. His soul had returned to his body again. He looked down, irritated against him who never knew what really happened. He looked down, wanted to shout that soul and body belong to him completely. "No one has the right for me, my body and soul" he said quietly, as quiet as turning clockwise when a doctor injected vaccination into the body. It was so quiet, as quiet as girls’ voice when they spoke to their boyfriend.

Zia always wanted to play back song that he had heard before. Maybe he had been playing the song in ten, hundred, even thousand of times before he went. He began to select and open the music folder in black colored laptop in his room. It’s not a peculiar thing that he began to push his buttons Click to playlist listed there. Then, after few minutes a song came.

She...

May be the face I can't forget

The trace of pleasure or regret

May be my treasure or the price I have to pay

She...

May be the song that summer sings

May be the chill that autumn brings

May be a hundred different things

Within the measure of a day

She...

May be the beauty or the beast

May be the famine or the feast

May turn each day into a heaven or a hell

She may be the mirror of my dreams

The smile reflected in a stream

She may not be what she may seem

Inside her shell

...