The birds of prey are humming again, flying freely in the unending sky, only to return to earth, only to come back to their dream.
Thick clouds can be seen in the sky's far east, waiting for the rain to fall delicately upon the surface.
It's just so bad because even the rain doesn't want to return to the ground; because the rainy season is probably over, what else can I expect? I became so dope these past few months.
Yes, a few months have passed and passed, a few hours have also been wasted even though I know everything has just disappeared like a bubble as if nothing really exists.
Every day, every hour, I write her a poem. I write her poetry closer and much more honestly from my heart, on what I truly feel for her.
Even though my handwriting is the worst, I still hold the dull pen
