Once a man told me he would like to have words
And with them a sound, and with it a meaning.
He walks with the feet of hills three, ever-sleeping,
An’ placed the mouth of a river to his giver of curse;
Let his blessed vision wane the way of the sun,
As the seasons shimmer over his scalp in knots,
Pulling out weeds, the ground comes undone
And the bark stands tall, while roots slowly rot.
Hark! says the roaring lions, mightiest be we,
Yet slumber is our sweet reprieve, the dreaming
As ticks crawl along our claws, cruel and free.
Watch our kingdom, our kingdom come creeping,
The thumping dust and scorching winds do swallow
The small blackbirds, with their twigs to follow.
The author can be reached at www.akifrashid.wordpress.com
Published in Daily Times, November 14th 2017.