Morning poems!
A little small bugs
Stumbling on my bread.
Too small, too little.
Not feeling loved.
The name could be Fondness.
But this you cannot feel.
And hold in your arms.
If love is such a thing,
That cannot be touched,
That you can only feel.
A little small bugs,
Are we then?
We wish to be, every one of us,
Want to be at least a General.
In reality we are just small and general.
But still we are so special,
Every one of us.
Should it be understood, this way,
the God?
