A setting sun sheds it’s colour,
Beneath timid summer leaves.
As winds would shy past shutters,
Wooded souls swayed warm and dreamed.
Tag: Sufism
Day 8
In the solitude
Of our temples heart,
We wrote our names
Into the wind,
A written music
For those with wings.
The perched prayers
Flutter…begin.
Seven Days
When you were the sea of my eye,
My self fell upon wings so shy.
When was laughter last so light,
That I had felt forgotten flight.
On day 5 am
In that we wait for end,
Mid fading winds of sand.
In dark refuge of night,
Silent word prays…despite.
The fourth day
I whisper as one, another,
Who was left with little cover.
I saw the blooms of shiver cast,
Infant petals, not one the last.
Just before the wind had left
This wood had days not so bereft.
With all the thickets swaying bare…
This little bloom sways so fair.
Day, the Third
Between the borders of my self,
The lips of the departed mourn,
For there my spirit descends,
Taking the eyes of death.
The Second Day
The sky is my wound,
And you… my womb.
If ever was a lovers nest,
Let us in the sky take rest.
First Day
The charm of a sun,
Those golden rays.
A wild grass undone,
Golden, reaches…sways.
Pieces
Not only heaven fell to shore
When stumbled I on milky ore,
Long since the ocean, waves unfurled,
On shore laid thin her shawl to world,
And mountain, move’d far inland,
Swayed his self to shore as sand.
I stayed here, our world’s torn seam,
One man of men, looking within.
Photo Credit Harold Davis
ahorsealone 