A winter wind arrived too soon,
Spilling spirits of a memory forth.
An embittered song of the North
Soaked my will with her tune.
She howled and cried and covered
The gorgeous Autumn colors,
And beat upon my wooden door,
And scratched upon my rusted shutters.
She tucked me in as a mother
Would lay her child to rest…
As night and day tottered together
Drunk near death in winters nest.
Sparrows scattered, like seeds tossed
From my grandmothers gentle hands,
As her years and memories lost,
So loosely in this broken land.
At the eve of a quiet day,
When the village left to pray,
The day would fall in tired talk,
And Id amongst these sparrows walk.
I found my heart upon a hill
That was to the sky a sill.
Though it lay upon old will,
I found a stone, that I found still.
Peace,
Abid
Wild horses… we bowed to taste morning dew,
The spirit dawn drew in gardens of sage.
We then cantered, it was then we both knew.
The Gods of Sumer lived in silence,
For our hearts reveled in the desert
When sage blossoms hid our penitence.
The wind carried our voices far away,
And far away we felt our voices fall.
We then thought that there we would also stay
Yet as wind swayed our nightly song,
He neared a desert’s aimless dunes.
That he did for a time we both thought long.
In our memory the wind is the same
As the whispers we spread in the garden
Where the sage’s parfum settled our name.
He thrust his self into me, into you,
Before our garden fell beneath his sand.
It was only then…then we were young too.
Your hands of many prayers past,
Fall with a heaviness in my chest…
It is what keeps me when to fall
Seems most human of it all.
When you visit this laden sill
Carved within me, and without me still,
To curl the curtains upon your finger
And there be a willful singer…
I hope to tell you “I needn’t know
From where you came or even how.”
For lighter is that threshold when
That is the chance you are given.
It is enough that you may
Have your good and have your say
To the man that cant demand it
And whose to say… understand it.
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.
Were a bush to bear a rose,
And only one, suppose
Which one of us would know
To whom a rose he did bestow?
It is a little something out of the ordinary from what I usually write, but I felt that hopefully you would enjoy it.
With Peace,
Abid
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!
There is
“Not enough fire to burn every letter”
“i wrote for you,”
“Not enough air to feed this garden”
“of our ashes.”
There is
“A lutist still in thoughts”
“you allowed me to,”
“His quivering song that settled”
“your eye and mine.”
The embers will not die until
They steal winds from each mountain,
As they refuse rest and long to fill
Their valley with all the wind’s of heaven!
ahorsealone 