We are
Consumed by the wind,
As the autumn leaves
That leap from the hillsides.
So we write,
With our darkest ink,
Passages in the sky…
Letting our afterthoughts
Mingle in the gardens
Of heaven
Like careless birds
In early spring.
…testing the emptiness
Of existence,
We listen through the silence
For Grace.
And she says,
“Wake up…”
With the tap of morning dew
Upon my ear.
All that has left
So silently,
Wanders among weeds,
Savors sweat as wine
And carnal company…
What of the eastern sun
Which never sets?
What of the whispered tongue
Upon a lovers lips?
All that has left,
Parted with the wind,
And the warmth beneath
The dearest wing.
Sing…
Sing…
Sing…
What of the eastern sun
Which never sets?
What of the whispered tongue
Upon a lovers lips?
I know love
Lets no wicked rest.
And I know grace
Weighs heavy
Upon my chest.
I could not speak,
So I dipped my soul in ink.
I could not feel,
So I hunted throughout
The land of music.
I could not see,
So I prayed
Within the deepest temples
Of Gods gardens.
Like so I listened
To my rose,
From a thousand miles away.
The wind I had felt was by no mistake,
Yet you lay on me, as a rose petal
Would drift down the Tigris night
Upon milky waters,
Between the forgotten seasons;
Where the spirit is intoxicated in divine limbo.
And I beg the sun to lose my self through the sky,
A thousand droplets, a thousand prayers,
A thousand pages, a thousand doves
To keep you aloft?
This is how I blushed upon your cheek
Naked before the world.
Between the banks of an ancient Song,
Where poets lost themselves,
She drowned in me.
Now I rage, rage against time,
To carve a canyon where humanity will
Lose itself!
How will you shout
Through my encompassing emptiness?
Match my dust with tears and prove me wrong!
Oh to be once again
A seam in the sand…
At the mercy of morning dew.
Shout and sing from the depths
Of my empty tomb.
Only a stranger can feel
And call upon this past to ruin.
How many generations do I call forth?
How many will then dig for truth?
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.
ahorsealone 
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