If I can just find
That pocket in your eyes
Where I can rest.
Oh memory,
How beautiful is the smile
Of time’s innocence?

Oh to hold that hand
That nurtured generations…
How does one return
The miracle of life?

When a prayer is burning
With the fires of memory,
My soul is lost
On the milky banks
Of afterlife’s river.

My hands are searching in the virgin mountain
Of our being.
Yet I breath,
A wind that has
Already forgotten,
And yet I breath
In a world that
Will not remember.

A Window sort of Frame

One day I sat in a wooden frame
That I found in the attic,
And as I thought all stills the same,
I set out to frame some music.

And what trouble did it seem,
To make this fancy true,
That I didn’t think of a likely thing
And think of a window!

So I took a hammer and the frame
And thought of every sound
That never could be heard in dream,
But could be by a window found!

I dedicate this poem to siti (my grandmother) who spends long hours by a window reading the Quran, or watching us children play. I love her greater than life.