Our book is written like a summer’s day,
Hearty its weather, inviting its length,
Its chapters are running showers-like way:
Their short stormy course is mending out strength.
And yet as fine as the sunny-locked bright
Daylight of writing beholds its contents,
A page in the centre is always in fright
That read and then turned, is where it all ends.
And when we are moving at life’s rapid speed
Dew also wanes off the grass that rays kiss –
The instant of time, once gone, yes, we need
Unweather’d astuteness to think of the bliss.
But when we turn pages, they don’t fall apart
They rest in this book and some in our heart.
Paula
3 comments:
Our book in waiting - a summer-like day,
trilling weather and inviting length -
heard pouring chapters, tear-running way
and for a while, they mended its strength.
Yet as fine as the golden locks bright
daytime story refreshed its content,
unheard, unshouted at, the coming night
dimmed the music into a darker-hair end.
In silence, and nests over, the dawn then took wing
dragging its dew to unspread from the ground,
and it seemed that your heart echoed a string
different, and the shuffle of pages a different sound.
So tell me do you have a new book with new words,
or are there still singing our trees yellow birds?
How lovely to use the same metaphor
over and over to liken again
trees processed in wood mills before
becoming paper to have ink taken in
to nature - that ultra-original trope
which had to once more be used as a stick
measuring lust, agape, and hope,
or how skin grows older and thick.
It’s for sure interesting to make out
their subtle aping of human situations -
how much better than a silent shout
all these heartfelt mediocre expressions.
Why not then feel free to borrow the birds
or the rays singing ballads to ears
atonal, from their forests or herds
and use them as crocodile tears?
How lovely to once more get away
with words said untall and unsway.
Baba Dochia
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