Scribbles

Maybe it is his time now to rest as well, Maybe it is time, he quit the trickery and for once got fooled, Maybe he has won races but never rest, Maybe now is his time to rest. Aged. For darkness soft, as with a texture of clouds, is swallowing radiance off around him His lamp which shone with a provoking flame, is but steadily losing its glow, The heart that pumped life into his flesh all these years, now is skipping its beats, His chest cannot, it seems, take the heaviness of his breath any more, His soul hurts at the sound of his chattering old bones, it whimpers and groans at every movement within his flesh, His hands have grown frail, his sight very deeply failing, His voice, which once was deep and melodious, is now cracking and breaking almost inaudible, He who once walked with hope, has it no more, It's as though within him lies no more strength to oppose death's pooling hooks, As though it isn't him who often ago fooled time and crooked death to naught. Our...

Can I seek shelter in your heart? Can I seek shelter on your bosom? This world loves me no more. Can I seek refuge in your arms? Can I seek refuge in your mind? This time wishes me harm. Can you hide me from light? Can you hide me from being seeing? There are mercenaries after my soul. Can you hide my heart in you? Can you hide my life in yours? Ghosts of evil people are after my breath. Can you be me and I you? Shelter me.

With colorful words, painting beautiful pictures of your smile, your whole, With love in every pause, in every punctuation mark, I write you this song. With warmth borrowed from your laughter,  With pleasant chills from your cool, I pen this love song for you, Just to remind you that you are what my heart races after. Its language is simple, yet meets your sophistication, Its rhythm is as golden as the warm rays of the morning Sun, Its shape is as ancient yet mysteriously charming as the Egyptian pyramids, Its texture is that of a baby's tender skin, soft and supple for the merriment of your heart, It, this song, I write about you. It is a love song for you. I have, So tonight when clouds fall asleep and the sky remains bare, Attentively listen to the singing stars, Listen carefully to their twinkling voices, for the song they sing is none like what mortal minds have ever composed nor their voices ever sung. It is my song, a love song for you. It is a love son...

You say you love me, I see you prove it, every day that you do, You say am your only, I see how you work and act hard to show that am your all, Plainly written in your actions and choicest words is your selfless love for me, It is penned in the brightest of ink for all to see, And I have seen it too.                                          Sometimes I wonder if you are real or this feeling you say you have for me is true, To the point where I blush or close my eyes frequently so to see if things will remain the same, But am often convinced that you and your love are as real as the fact that that skies aren't blue, And that if am to understand I must love you too For a burden is better felt by the laden A fall's impact by the fallen So am I to love you as well...

If stars were humans, and we them, Could we shine as much? What could we cry out, Tears of silver? Could they look down on us? Us who would shine of fiery gases as the fume of volcanoes, Could they look down, bow to us in reverence? Could we with love light their paths, there in their mighty cosmos? Could they wish they were us, even for a second? To be beckoned below for, with mountain-high respect and ocean-wide admiration. If stars were human, Could they populate the earth like they masterfully dirten, paint patterns in the dark roof? And could we still match their ability to adorn the sky with such much beauty? Could we? If stars were human, and we were them.

If the sky was a blanket then it could be one held invisibly, fastened tightly in thin air, And Earth would be the bed, on which dreamers lay, Dancing with beautiful shadows, Pacing to and fro the ends of the world,  In close stance shaking, wriggling their wine-bottled waists, To tunes of old, tunes of ancient Egypt, Rhythms of first day Africa, tunes of old. If the sky was a blanket, And earth, the bed on which dreamers slept, Life would be a massive dream dreamt by all, It would be nothing real, But a masterpiece, a Mona Lisa of sleeping minds.

My village is very, very small, But my father, mother and all, It supported till their death. I am equally small, young, But my womb will bring forth great men, strong, To till, plant and even grow the earth. Small but not for the earth.