MUSIC ON THE STREET

MUSIC ON THE STREET
..
smiles flex to hide pains
not memories
that suck us dry of tears.

wishing all nights were days bright,
is dreaming life without end.
so dying having lived is no more bad a wish
when we can’t hold a little longer,
than eternally give in to be gone.

when darkness falls
following the last of our weary evenings,
holding our guitar between my weak veins,
stretched loose like its strings,
in us oscillates stains of pains
as the cold fire is leaping
and the blunt music through the threads
in us is cutting

…this was not our destiny
but a lie we have since liked.

watching our very best
abandoned in a past beyond our own caress,
hidden in us is a living gifted with true falsehoods,
of a life well wished, not trully lived.
….
thoughts of us, helpless
have turned souls in you helpless to help
but welled in your eyes that joy of pain
thankful for we still have a day to go, but empty.

not known to you
that music is the river through the fields dry,
and that its melody dies as a mirage upfront,
and that after long comes the open night,
strings fall,
and our dreams coldness shall freeze,
and all alien dialogues, monologues they shall be.
….
if only our strings weren’t loose,
weak to shout to you our sad melodies,
of never decreeing this our living
or of not by our dreams treading
or not in rags dressing
or on streets in one spot walking
then would we rest smiling
listening to frail echoes of our guitar
cold fire leaping
remembering the struggles we have won
but this one, our villain to please.
….
where we are no gone, we shall rest
above the soils where our bones shall lie
our souls not begging in the heat of day
or with dogs in the filth, dinning.

IAN JASON YASO

whose love

whose love

is my feeling,

laid in waste,

lynched,

unbleeding,

but from inside.

whose love

grabs as mine

like the fish bird

on the waters deep,

but in the heart

of the sea.

who begs

as my love

for my love

laid in waste

like sea shells

on the coast

IAN JASON YASO