You have passed our land
In unending pilgrimage,
Yet you have never shown
Her the same face.
She has thought of Us
When We had not of her
As a widow that sings
To her unborn child.
And her restless faith is,
Though parfum of the heart,
Rising after rains that tell
Her you are the same stranger.
Our inheritance, an emptiness
In our hands that thinks her sweet oil
Squeezed by a seasons forthcomingness.
The seasons themselves… the thought that all
Of them are her leaves will leave us better
Fools, squeezing in drier fields till naked
We could see her. And, then, do we take her?
Do we try again, as unintended?
Oh that the ground, laden with leaves after
our stay, can breath prayer over laughter!
A beautiful Olive on our land in Palestine.
A beautiful Olive on our land in Palestine.
I heard a song as faint as
The tide’s prayer,
’twas the voice of mountains
Where my soul was born.
“It is where my child waits,
Drinking the aniseed tears
Of Ishtar’s womb,
I want him to wait more.”
Buried within her eyes
Was the same ode to the gone…
So I learn in my reflections
That break, abandoned, by her shore.
Our earth awakes to a call.
From within itself a voice
Speaks lightly the amber truth.
She pulls across her body
The sunlight shawl of morning,
Across amber fields of wheat
She lifts the dew of dreams.
Two golden seas mix, this instance,
And truths blend,indifferent;
For what is taken… is lifted.
Let the leaves of the olive tree,
Soon heavy with dreamlessness,
Let me hear this silence be
This prayer she listens to.
With the Adhan comes our past,
Wind that makes groves chatter,
And her prayers unheard
Blood whistles upon my lips
Like songbirds from our mountain
That make their seldom trips
When Western clouds surround them.
As we rush into our homes,
Crows roam a land alone,
And their song, on what war exhumes…
Until earthen clouds fall undone.
And as we weep a vulture hovers…
My eyes are closed and yours.
Teach me unlike the others…
As gossip on a summer’s doors.
I open my eyes and then I hear
The dry whisper of almond trees.
How can we stay here
Hope is little, the crows are near.
The sky was then my roof,
Upon our years, stories.
I felt winds that carried
Humanities treaties…
The sky spilled into
The stairwell
And swept me down,
I passed a century
And near the bottom was found.
Black birds flew above
Shedding their iron feathers
Laying their cloth of ruble,
How their whispers spelled trouble.
With me was the sky
As heavy as the years,
And with me i thought i should
Then have it, even so, near.
ahorsealone 
You must be logged in to post a comment.