Monday, March 12, 2012

In the land of my father,

there are landscapes
sculpted with summery imagination,
there is life
stemming out of scattered shingle,
antiquity in its breath
that become textures in cities colored bright.

I count the lands that I have seen
and those from your eyes
through the tales you’ve told me,
I will only have to count the stars
festooning the sky
to count the hearts
that you have touched.

Seated under my trophies, you asked-
What use is a flute without a song?
A body out of character?
Answers without deeds,
And it is only now
that I have found
my slight life’s meaning
written almost lyrically
in them.

In the land where you parted
with your wear ,
we slipped into your attire
with straight backs
and humble heads.

We were the birds
who carried your shroud
with brave eyes
letting our hearts
cry some diamonds
as we held on to your
bare spirit.

We let it steer our stories
today, tomorrow and forever,
as we attempt to grow as tall
as the great outlines you set
and call it triumph
if we could
by our end
become a wisp of your impression.

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