Saturday, January 30, 2016

Mountain Mist

From the top of the mountain the mist covers
the cities, drowning out the noise of vendors
the calls of the Athan that comes from the mosques
the mist is a glorious reversal of the clouds

under the feet, a beetle buzzes an early song
to revert the effect of the times one hunted
for insects to deprive them of song, of joy, of gathering
it soothes the heart, the song, the scent

not of a woman trying to become a flower
but of narjes, narcissus too much into
reflecting among themselves
the possibility of no other

this is how verse comes to the poet,
yoga- splashing on a mountain top
with rain running down old notebooks
wetter, wilder, dreamier lines

too much mysticism runs in these words
there are elements, ends of waters, winds, fire-storms
in these lines but maybe, sometimes the stronger
the ground, the higher the vision

they said poets dream with music on
because the words flow, now on top of the mountain
there is nothing but a few olive trees and morning sun
this is what the eye sees,
from here the watchtowers of the world grew
to make space to destory only to know at the mist's
arrival that pain can reside in the most peaceful moments

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