There was a silence, Then The voice echoed back From the glass mountain. A long time ago A woman Walked out of the ordinary road, With a suitcase Empty of memories Full of anticipation To find Her Yar the one She loves the most. Years passed, She crossed Many crowded roads. One day Her tracks transformed In colorless steps Leading to the invisible road. Where Every straight line Destined To turn into a circle. The tree of love Grows in a middle, Rises above The green hands of earth. At the footprints The sheppard is resting Playing the flute. Calling each sheep, by name. She stopped Accepted his share of bread In exchange With threads of her dark hair. The next morning Sheppard was gone. The flute was left behind. Silence echoes From the glass mountain The woman Plays the flute, Stepping away From the tied suitcase To drunken roots. Nothing stayed the same, Dust washed her face, The forgotten heart Met the true lover. She is circling No wall, is here, No window, Closed or open Her quiet mind knows The stranger standing In the center Smiling Is the friend, Greeting her. Yar has no name, Yar has no face. The heart knows The owner of the hands That made her From threads of light, In color of love. The woman found the one She loves the most. She Plays the flute Silence echoes, Yar rests in her. Everyday, more and more...
Posted on: Sun, 21 Jul 2013 09:06:17 +0000
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