River Of Regrets (How It Flows So Red)

I closed my eyes to commit a sin, far from the river of sleep,
with its soothing song it lures me, to know its secrets deep,
for on its lofty banks, my hopes and dreams lament
with tears that reach the bed, of the river fore-with sent.
Carrying in it my wishes, a shoulder to my woes it lent,
swallowing forever my failures, failures I never meant.
On its shores I dethroned a sunrise, down unto mere flames,
believing in a fading twilight, I proudly laid my claim,
with its sand I built my castle, my kingdom of chimera,
under the genial light of hope, my days of splendid era,
with the ruin of my reality, I honored thee my “zenith”
and fallen angels, not those idols, my only kin and kith.
On those banks I play my harp, and then I weep some more
for every passing ripple, is a ponder to my wound still sore.

Come To Me When Thou Art Restless Done.

Hath thou seen the birth of a butterfly?
hath thou held a sleeping cocoon?
hath thou heard its tenant heave and sigh
and expect its freedom soon?
If nay then tell me if thou hath,
smelled the first rain of the season,
seen the wet leaves on the path,
and if nay then do state for what reason,
thou say the world is more than these,
sights and sounds and fragrances,
yellow fields in the autumn breeze,
the matters regarding the heart that is?
But see O blinded by the white
cotton dreams and so it seems,
the rippling pond within the light,
the approaching shadows of the night.
Among them I along with thee,
but bales of past, drops of now,
darkness you and darkness me,
if not love then do tell us how,
lie in wake until eternity,
shun this faith, erase these signs
by the powers that let us be,
part the endowed true grapevines.
Close thine eyes O thinking one,
do not ask, what thou dost not know,
come to me under the knowing sun,
come to me when thou art restless done.

Arguing With Fate, Conversing With A Reflection.

Tell me wise man if you have ever,
loved someone and for so long,
that thought and reason have to sever
a vein that love has now made wrong.
For loss of purpose is one thing
and burning hate is quite another,
the rhyme of the sages unto me sing,
like a child is lulled on by its mother,
“sleep my angel do not feign,
wakefulness in the midst of dark,
leave these tears, forget the pain,
no matter how hard they may depart”.
Are not these words thyne O wise one
and those you told me long ago,
“love is like an eternal sun,
that waits to set for those who know,
and those that wait for it come,
on them shall this sun never set”.
I waited until I was finally done,
and an empty yesterday is what I regret.
Although my bed she warms today,
just flesh and sounds and nothing more,
I hate her I do regret to say,
for this wait has closed an open door.
Look at me O wise old man,
mirror or not, what have you done,
look at what you made me do
look at what you made me shun,
cry at what you made this fate,
lament at what you made me give,
all this love now turned to hate,
and in this hate we have to live.

A Merchant of Flowers, A Flower No Less

Every time I see that child,
unfortunate and chided though,
walking on with a step so mild,
as if the last was the only low,
and all to come are only great,
but all I see is unsound hope,
all I hear is a hopeful gait,
and all I feel is a fateful rope
that pulls to tell him now and then,
exceeds the grasp of foolish men,
from all that they are worthy of.
But, still that child does only scoff,
“Flowers for a coin, Kindly Sir,
I have not eaten since yesterday”.
How these words within me stir,
the tears I held for a tragic play,
is not this child just like mine?
although behind the veil of pain,
his eyes may not as gayly shine
and sorrow is all that does remain.
But why must a flower sell flowers more,
and wilt when it must only bloom?
why must his visage yearn the fore
and aft of the sun that always looms?
Why does this child sell his fate
to live a life of bleak prospects,
if only he were born of late
or somewhere else in some respect,
he would not have to run barefooted,
to chase his dreams flying fast,
he would not have to face the cold,
and warm to the memory of summers past.
My child! Give me all those flowers,
and here is a penny more,
do not pray or give me thanks
I am no less a scoundrel sore,
for when I shall roll my window up,
and see my own blood next to me,
his innocent face my hands will cup,
and the wheels of misfortune you will see.
For all the flowers in the world,
and all their vendors sweet and lost,
can not fathom why some are hurled
cruelly into a destiny accost.
I see this child in my rearview,
his face lit with a vigor new,
if only he could know how true
the mother of fate for him did rue.

A Beautiful Hope, A Beautiful Lie

When I bleed, they only wish to see a drop of red,
not to hear my screams, not to bury the thousands dead.
When I suffer, they only wish to take my home it seems,
but they take away my hope, my spirits, my dreams.
When they kill my innocent children, our sons and daughters,
and their unknowing blood turns red the flowing waters,
they expect us only to whince, mourn and then turn away
but feel the scales of justice, unto us they finally sway.
The day of reckoning is far away, but coming nonetheless,
the bell that tolls we may not hear, but it tolls somewhere incess’
Tie these hands, you must fear them surely,
burn this skin, you must hate it sorely,
Am I not human, just as you, persecuted though, but just the same?
demons in hell have suffered less, and faced not the dreaded shame,
every day a hopeful reprise, the hope to leave this awful place,
where the dead must mourn the living left, where soil and flesh embrace.
I am the child of Sarajevo, have you seen my rose?
carved in concrete memoirs, does it not impose?
a question as to how so many died, but no one heard a sound,
for the dead know only how to sleep, in graveyards unbound.
I am a mother Palestinian, have you seen my baby?
I lost it today, or yesterday, is it alive still? maybe….
gaza is a wall of martyrs, perhaps he is another brick,
and how each day they raise it further, it only makes me sick.
I am the corpse of Sudan, where is my sweet Babylon?
has it drowned in the tears of centuries, or vanished in the wait of dawn?
where is my fellow man, where is the angel of death?
enough of this living and dying, enough of these wasted breaths!

Fly Away You Faded Ones (From The Burdened Pond)

In the dark I wait on a single limb,
in a stagnant pool on a faithless whim,
while yonder peeks a golden orb,
from behind a veil so dark and grim,
timid smirks this leaping child,
climbing nimble upon the wild
abyss of fleeting, ending night,
and turns to warm this lake defiled.
As light invades my rippling home,
and runs upon the heavenly dome,
I find myself here not alone
as soon as sight does justly roam.
On the lake of black, a lake fandango,
Awakening tides of endless flamingo,
and as the dawn has finally come,
the sun has bled the gold to yellow.
With every moment this splendid sun,
warms the frozen, one by one,
and every wing that yawns so pink,
Harkens, our endless wait is done.
The lake must envy our color too,
for every ripple steals it through,
now our feet must stand in awe,
the hue of life has turned a’new,
as if the vines of bougainvillea,
creep the walls they never knew,
then bleed some while as scarlet scilla,
and stain them thus as where they grew.
Though, I must complain I do not feel,
the convalescence of the thawing peal,
my wings are numb, my wings are numb,
despair has eloquently turned so real.
Just as hope had etched a mark,
a ray of light in a day so dark,
came rushing in the vengeful flight
of phantoms hopeless, aimless, stark.
My faded ones are fading still,
the thirsty lake has had its fill,
the mirror is now more alive
than those that ripple in its will,
and have they traded thrills today?
or have they vowed to make a play?
shall the water stand in dismay,
and watch the faded ones fly away?
Their plumage pale and white as mine,
and below the lake, the pinkest wine,
their burdens drunk too much to fly,
and they themselves now stand in line.
Any moment now they shall be no more
among the tepid floating memories sore,
I shall be left standing as if I were,
the burden to my conscience paramour.
With a numbing sound, and a flash of wings,
the flock has left for the fiery ring,
the mighty orb witness in the sky,
and I the flightless bird, me and I.
Fly away until your spirits are done,
I would join you too if I had begun,
but sans my will, I have to sing,
Fly away you restless ones, you hopeful ones, you faded ones.

Silence Our Only Words, Breaths Our Only Goodbye’s

An evening is due, and so is a word
among the flurry of the white moths wings.
The wind languid, the returning bird,
and the song of the sunset it sings.
Me and you, and the night insidious
painting our love on the fading light,
drooping shadows and thoughts assiduous,
of the vanishing sun and the fleeting sight.
Come hither love, and partake embrace
not a soul that can make an anxious cry,
a fire less night, its cold we must face
and the words I hear companion to a sigh.
“We lived for love, and time our foe,
our abode the home of the fireflies,
we saw the sun and then the dark,
and our breaths our only goodbye’s.”