poetry itself painting life

Afternoon before the bud the village atmosphere ..
Edged creeping time alone.
Not without this shade of footing ..
Just reluctant to shift from the decisions that have been made ..

Myself is not a miracle thing ..
Not too scary ..
Not amazing anyway ..

I heard a spicy slap on the earlobe.
So hot stinging chest that descends from boiling my anger ..
However, I try to uphold just a sense of patience ..
And I tied as hard as the roots of the guava tree.

Myself indeed I myself ..
With the certainty that painting is indelible ..

My self purifies myself ..
My own for eternal halal ..
My own for him my life companion ..