Wish I knew what...

My writings, which's kind I do not know.

I look out of the window. I see a cherry tree. on one of the branches there is a white flower. I see wind blowing, I see the cold raging and reaching out for it with it's fingers. But the flower doesn't perish, it stands and it keeps standing, against the opposing weather. 

A week goes by. A month runs past. And of the flower fruit is born. 

Inside the fruit there is a seed. A bird eats the fruit. Only the seed is left.

The seed is lying under the earth, day after day. And finally a great tree  looks up.

And if I ever climb the tree, stepping on branch after branch, to finally achieve its top, before me I  see the moon. Behind me there is the sun. And on my left side I see hills. I see woods. I see lakes. The sight, which makes me exclaim. And on my right side I see people. At one place they are crowdin and shouting. A litlle further, they are running. And beside, a person stands, looking at a strange shaped building, holding two dogs, a small one, and a tiny one. Then I look up. Blue sky with white clouds, i see above me. The clouds froming shapes, those are. They look like everything, and like nothing at all. Together, a ship they build. Five sails, it has. On one sail, is something looking like a house. The next one shows a woman carrying two bags. On the third I see a great tree, with a flower on one of its branches, then my gaze falls upon the fourth sail. There is the man with two dogs, whom I saw on the right side. I look there, but only mist is to be seen. I try to find the ship again, but the sky’s colour shifted to grey, i can’t see it. And then I look below… I see a woman, more beautiful, than everything I saw on the left side, combined. A litlle girl runs to her.

I climb down the tree, and run, to those I love.

There is a grey street.

There are grey clouds, above the grey street.

There are grey people walking on the street.

There are grey houses on both sides of the street.

There is a grey sign at the end of the street.

A grey limousinne drives through the street.

A boy walks on the street.

A woman falls on the street.

A young man runs on the street.

The boy passes the woman a hand. Blood falls from her knee onto the grey pavement.

She looks at the boy with her grey eyes.

The boy looks intoo her eyes, with his blue eyes.

The man stops running.

The limousinne stops driving.

The people stop walking.

The woman holds the boy’s hand.

Her grey hat falls of, revealing

her black hair.

Her eyes are green.

The woman smiles.

A huge wind is born.

Ash starts to rise from the ground.

From people’s figures, from houses’ walls and roofs, from the pavement’s stones,

from the sign’s plate, from the limousinne’s bodywork.

A grey cloud flies up, and far away.

All grey clouds fly far, far away.

Blue sky is left.

The people’s gaze drops.

They see themselves.

Susanne Zartmann apologises for stepping on Ricardo Diaz’s foot.

Shinjij Kitisori asks Lara Gearson about the way to the city’s centre.

Mirko Zelvenović helps Sophie Koboyate carry her shopping bags.

Viktor Gorbanov talks about man city’s new signings with Ahmed Salem.

Anjana Khan discusses whether red cats are always male, with Yen Hao.

I pick up my bag.

I start putting one foot in front of the other.

I reach the street’s end.

I look upon the sign’s plate.

„I came, I saw, I looked again” Is what I read there.

The sand is hot, and the air is dry.

The bottle is empty, and water is far.

My legs hurt, but I walk.

My lips are dry, but I smile.

My eyes are tired, but I look.

My sight is poor, but I see.

Because I want to see.

I want to see the mountian up ahead,

want my gaze to fall upon its shining peak.

I know it’s far,

I know it is high,

I know it’ll be hard,

 I know it won’t be fun.

But with a smile, I walk on,

with a smile, I choose the hardest path,

with a smile, I believe I’ll make it before night.

With a smile, I pick up a dry stick from the ground.

I forget all the heat.

I forget that in my head, hundred drums beat,

I toss my backpack far away, and make myself on the steepy way.

I start to run.

I start to recall.

How John learned to swim her,

How Marc told a joke here,

How Yun kissed me over there.

A river flows beside me,

A bird sings above me,

But, no, I do not stop,

No, I do not slow down.

I keep going, I keep running,

I keep smiling, I keep recalling.

It is here, that George slipped and fell,

It is here, that I mended that old ball for Jim,

It is here, that I told Yun how I love her.

There is the white smoke,

There is the blue home….

What kind of writings is this?

IMHO, its style is poetry.

All right, thanks, Theo.

Its all lovely! prose and poetry

Thank you, Byron.

Let us meet, as if I didn’t say all, that I did,

Let us meet, as if you did not wound me like you had,

As if, I didn’t betray you, like I had.

Let us drink, this sour wine.

Let us smoke those cheapest cigarettes, that hurt our lungs,

In those uncomfortable chairs we’ll sit,

Beside this ugly street.

Listening to the cars’ engines, we will be,

Watching workers, build a factory.

Wishing, we could make the time go back.

With sad smiles,

On our faces,

We’ll forget,

 All our aches,

All old wounds,

We won’t hear the street’s noise.

We won’t feel the cold wind.

All I’ll see will be your face.

All we’ll hear will be each other’s voices,

Not bothering, to make out the pointless words.

You, and me.

You, and me.

Same old tune,

With words this time.