Thursday, December 17, 2009

The Rhyme

Last night,
In less light;
I was composing a rhyme,
In an erratic and sleepy hymn;

In heads I thought,
In dreams just bought,
A trance of silver cascade,
With a golden fa├žade;

A baby boy smiling,
And a mother clasping;
A baby doll crying,
And a father tears eyeing;

The whole earth,
Shrunk in a globe still worth;
The dome of priceless diamonds,
Surrounded by trees of almonds;

A brother and sister,
Holding hands together,
Playing, fighting, plucking hairs,
Love, Anger, sorry hearing ears;

A tree of gold,
A plant too old;
The poor, the rich,
The saint, the witch;

The death cry and the birth laughter,
Something before, many things after;
The trees, the fruits,
The stem, the roots;

A home of hundred rooms,
Doors, windows and forlorn roofs;
One person per one room,
Hundred bodies in a gloom;

Rejected, dejected, sarcastic souls,
Lurking, murky, mournful fools;
A sparrow in nest,
A humming bird flying from east to west;

Such things,
Much things,
Made a rhyme,
In an erratic and sleepy hymn.

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