This is but a draft of an idea, based on H. Murakami’s books “What I talk about, when I talk about … “. Seemed like a neat and fun test to write, following the titles way more than the context, a poem about it, or better said, about myself, if scanned thoroughly enough.

There is not really a thought structure to it, nor should it have one. It is not meant to resemble anything particulary. It is, in a way, more of a current state of mind. That what one reads, sees, smells, feels, is what shapes them into what they wil be for the day. And then we are able to see what state of mind reigned.

Crystal, delicate and resentful,
with views of its own
Not has love an essence as delicate
nor does it have the soul.

Imagine then, a window that faces east
Stained crystals, with colours not before seen.
An unimaginable paintless drawing.
How is, as it stands, a person able
to see that which is incomprehencible
only by words of an acquainted third?

They would not understand, how could they.
Try to see while blind, to eat what has no taste,
To feel warmth while numb,
Imagine God with no faith.

We can not, we can not.
Essence needs of presence
to be felt as it was meant to
yet oddly left unscathed.


For crystals, as perfect as they may be,
grow deficiencies that only a few can see.
But, where lays interest? I ask. There,
where beautiful things are broken.

Oh and aren't we all
just a rock throw through a stained window.
Poetry is just letting the sun set
and being there to see the broken holes.