Ode to the Inseparable Sufferings of Men

The dew hangs from the heavy trees,

pulling them closer to their Mother,

the old Earth

of love and roots,

soil and Sun.

 

I found her ashamed, asleep

upon the coals, bed-ridden,

fictitious in her agony,

for Skies were representative

of pain for the poor girl.

 

‘My love,’ I said, ‘I am wealthy

in my Eyes. I am possessed of

the Heavens and Beyond

in these images of heart,

these dreams of my Soul.’

 

Though the vapours had entwined themselves

around her, obscuring her body,

obfuscating, discerning us both

as separately together, I knew that Time

would wreak upon her verdant Soul

that flaming wisdom of the seldom-prodded hearth,

no, the truth of the Elixir,

window into the Abyss,

Knowledge out of pain.

11/01/2016

Burnaby

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Endless Writer © Ata Zargarof 2018

atazargarof@gmail.com

BC, Canada