Tag Archives: Photography by Thorsten Becker

An echo in time

An echo in time, orig­i­nally uploaded by Thorsten Becker. There is time, more than enough time, yet there is barely any left. The noise of this world is get­ting louder, drown­ing out the songs, those sweet songs, rever­ber­at­ing in time. I close my eyes, I dream. The mist of time envelops me and there they are,

Spring glances with sleepy eyes

Spring glances with sleepy eyes, orig­i­nally uploaded by Thorsten Becker. Blue sky, first warm rays Spring glances with sleepy eyes Across silent lands Dream­ing in Winter’s bed Of life’s intense col­ors © Thorsten Becker My first attempt at a tanka, a genre of Japan­ese Waka (poetry) of which I had not heard before — at

Wind’s little sister

Wind’s lit­tle sis­ter, orig­i­nally uploaded by Thorsten Becker. “Come chil­dren, come gather round, I want to show you some­thing,” mas­ter Wu Shi encour­aged his lit­tle pupils. “Do you know what this is?” he asked. “It’s a flute,” the chil­dren replied. “Oh yes, but it is much more than that. It is a mes­sen­ger. Can you

In silence awaiting

In silence await­ing, orig­i­nally uploaded by Thorsten Becker. Sil­hou­ette for­est Stretch­ing, in silence await­ing The promise of spring © Thorsten Becker

On that day when the clock had stopped

On that day when the clock had stopped, orig­i­nally uploaded by Thorsten Becker. On a day like a thou­sand razors cut­ting through thick fab­ric, tear­ing into burn­ing skin right through to aching bones with icy blazes. On a day of grave like silence, of ghost like islands drift­ing in the shad­owy mist of mourn­ful gloom,

Tears of the sun

Tears of the sun, orig­i­nally uploaded by Thorsten Becker. In that misty air Droplets form on fallen leaves Like tears of the sun © Thorsten Becker

Her heart fell into the lake

Her heart fell into the lake, orig­i­nally uploaded by Thorsten Becker. She beat her chest, the pain chok­ing her, gasp­ing for air. Heartache. Why does it have to hurt so much? Will there ever be hope? Ever be a bright light at the end of the dark tun­nel? She was cry­ing, her dark hair sway­ing