The blind fingers

          The blind finger

the blind fingers paint in the white sand...

even if the waves chatched and forced...

I able to taste the beach of smell...

I able hear the the waves brake the rocks...

author: syarifah nazira

with poem

                                      * with poem * 


with poem I sing, until sunset will sank...
with poem I belief the mortal love will come....
with poem I cry, because of the cruel inject's time...
with poem I scream, although breath's time is silent...
with poem I see, in the valley hide a diamond...
with poem I  heard, the starving cities are grumbling...
with poem I run, however my green age get away

created : syarifah nazira

poem

                     '' Hearing of harvest....''

Hearing of harvest rotting in the valley,
seeing at end of street the barren mountains,
round corners coming suddenly on water, 
knowing them shipwrecked who were lauched for island,
we honour founders of these starving cities,
whose honor is the image of our sorrow.

              which cannot see its likeness in ther sorrow,
              that brought them desperate to the brink of valleys,
              dreaming of evening walks through  learned cities,
              they reined their violent horses on the mountains,
              those fields like ships to castaway on island,
              vision of green to them that craved for water...

author : Auden

poetry

                                    '' The force that through the green fuse ''

The force that through the green fuse drives the flower
drives my green age, that blasts the roots of trees
 my destroyer
and I am dumb to tell the crooked rose

                     my youth is bent by the same wintry fever.
                     the force that drives the water through the rocks
                     drives my red blood, that dries the mouthng streams
                      turn mine of wax

and I am dumb to mouh into my veins
how at the mountain spring the same mouth sucks.
the hand that whirls the water in the pool
stirs the quicksand, that ropes the blowing wind

                      hauts my shroud sail
                      and I am dumb to tell the hanging man
                      how of my clay is made the hangman's line....

my poem

                                      *** The flower's suffering ***


Sun selebrated the thick flower....
The green's world beautify a scenery...
if sun's shine disappear and far away...
so, the flower uncheer....

           Restlessness look in it's face...
           because  the sun didn't care !
           The flower was pale....
           Then fallen which brough sadness...


created by * syarifah nazira
                  

my poem

                               '' a piece dream"

the leaves of shake sing weakly..

murmur of the wet wind tell: about a hopelessness and giving up...

my hope rip

but my wish at the bud of the tree....

                  however the suffering as sharp knife...

            I have to walk in the spot light...

                       although a little shadow....

                   in my chest has " a piece dream". 

                  

created by syarifah nazira

movie maker syarifah nazira