If I can just find
That pocket in your eyes
Where I can rest.
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
And yet I breath
In a world that
Will not remember.
We will walk
Where the sun drips like honey,
How, in only our eyes
I see the birth
Of every moment.
What do we say
When we look away?
Will we yet be
As the dust in summer?
In the roots,
Of an olive tree.
These letters are want the days
That I’ll remember few,
When we galloped fields of sage
And valleys of featherfew.
There you hummed a poets lines,
When of sage rose grape vines;
And threaded the night a gown
With lamp lights that littered town.
I couldn’t as a stranger pass
As you dressed a virgin land,
A language braided of the past
With a homeless heart and handless hand.
So your hills I braved
When you unearthed to me,
As we with night behaved,
Where you conceived a doorless key.
You are a temple for lost souls,
Who seek not scripture but rest.
For your doors are never closed
And spring runs childishly about.
And when the harsh winds of winter
Come bellowing from the North,
They are tempered in their shame,
Settling in their youth, beneath your eyes.
Life will not find your secret,
As she is blind to her self.
Though time will remember your refuge,
And forever find you, his rest.
Have I found my self in a child’s breath,
Lost amongst the olives branches and figs,
Or in the language of blossoms themselves
Mourning in her basket at dawn?
“Take me back, take me back” I call to her,
“I still do not know from where I came.”
The illusion of our choice is called away
In the broken road to the market;
Cobbled musings, dreams of an old mans coffee,
Sown by the roadside seamstresses of our past.
“Who are they, do they not see you?”
Her basket sways innocently forgotten.
And in the shouts of Ramallah’s market,
The mourning of the day is cultivated.
I am left to a stranger by her hands,
An in those hands I remember being taken away.
I say my child “Where is this life,
What have you brimming in your eyes?”
Quiet, quiet my little flame
Liberty does not feed fires.