I know you love death, but you know I love you as death is after life and love is between both of it. I know the passion of power to be an author, author of otherís death. I know you love exactness, precision, and accuracy even in life and even for death.
I know the unexpected big house which you never thought of since your birth is haunting you day and night and the innumerable rooms one after another reminds you of open graves of a war field well decorated. The screams of past since Victorian time is making you restless and obsessed with death.
Your heart beats for the nation perhaps but nations heart donít beat these days, the pulse of the nation is sinking, we keep our hand on each others nerves to find the life of disturbed beat. When mercy and forgiveness is replaced by rage and revenge, I find my self in jungle of those animals which are not yet born as wildest of wild prefer to forgive. When the nationís guiding forces donít know what it means to embrace what will the Nation know about love.
I thought to reach you this month with a red rose but before I plucked the flower I found it pale, then stained and then drops of blood made it more red. I couldnít reach you neither my flower. Perhaps next year, perhaps some other month!
Aah, you are thinking I want to be your valentine but with my flowers dead and my hand crushed and my voice sinking I cant be your valentine, not this year Mr. President!
An [un]Known citizen of [no]love world