Book of Life

My life is a book in which you have placed your mark

For years, I have tried to understand the meaning of your signature

But, as you probably know, I have failed quite miserably…

Because, you see, I can’t even read faces in the dark

I don’t understand human expressions or the purpose of human nature

I have learned only one lesson: there is no use in suffering or crying uncontrollably…

 

I have changed pens so many times because they have run out of ink

My keyboard is worn out from processing thousands of even more exhausted words

That I have underlined and burned in the flames of red type

I wanted to live a life in the midst of intelligent minds for whom to think

Was to play a symphony even when they heard the cacophony of broken chords

But instead I have wasted time recording every word I mistype

 

I have picked up a glass from which I hoped to drink delicious nectar

I have written out long lists of plans that could probably change my life

But my unstable hand dropped the glass and it crashed into a thousand teardrops

All I could do was pronounce inaudible phrases on an empty stage like a mute actor

And cut the strings of my already broken dreams with a knife

Like a fool, I could only listen to the painful music of spring raindrops

 

You see, to this day, I believe in miracles to a certain extent

Only you know much more about them than I ever could

Although I realize that your signature on the blank canvas is quite inscrutable

You can drop a phrase and watch empty words crash in their descent

While I will lie down and for once feel like driftwood

Anything can happen now just because my half full glass is breakable

 

I am not worried anymore even though I can’t control my restless desire

My life is in my own hands and I am no longer afraid of facing my fears

And even as I stand in the middle of the room and quench my bitterness

I realize that I have wasted all my words on a search for something higher

My hand wrote down phrases on pages I already filled with too many tears

And to my shame I have spent too many years wandering in the wilderness…

 

There is no point in placing a period at the end of these rambling lines

Instead I will look at your signature and teach my hand to copy it

I have been practicing for many days but can’t quite understand

What makes the letters sob and subject themselves to red underlines

Perhaps there is nothing to understand at the end of this play for the idiot

Nothing more to wait for in the middle of the stage on which I stand

 

Life has become almost like a lovely symphony

I listen to its harps and violins until I hear your voice

But I refuse to look at the world through rose-colored spectacles

No, I actually intend to hear your broken words scream in cacophony

I will sit in the twilight listlessly and search for a reason to rejoice

To look on the spectrum halfway between the positive and the skeptical

 

There is no need to do anything more

I have acted like a complete fool too many times

But nobody cares and nobody should

I will do something I have never done before

I will finally learn that I should always pay for my crimes

And will hold my soul in my hands until it had taught me what it could

 

My life is a book in which I had recorded my stress

I have tried to read human expressions and share their pain

I have played the fool much more often than any other part

But, angel-like, you have seen me through moments of bitter distress

This is why for your sake alone I will attempt to hear the music of the rain

For you alone, I will hold my breath so I can sense the symphonic rhythm of your heart