Still my room
Is a lonely cave
Alone there’s nothing
To feel or hear
But the sad strain
Of a night bird’s song
Calling to a lost mate
From a distance.
Out there perhaps
My soulmate is waiting,
But alas she is faceless
Unlike the newly awakened rose
I saw this morning
In my garden!
* * *
THE ROAD TO NOWHERE
Time comes when we stop walking
And contemplate where the road we are on
Would lead us to.
We believe we are on the right path
To our successes and fulfillment of dreams
And yet the end of the road is not reached.
Then we stop walking again
To realize that the road we are on
Would lead us nowhere
But to the grave.
* * *
ONCE I PICKED UP A STONE
In my life I’ve picked up so many stones
But what I couldn’t forget was that one
I picked up from the silent and sandy shore.
I was a child then and wanted to stop the waves
From annoying the slumber of the shore.
I threw the stone at the laughing sea.
Where’s that stone now God only knows.
BuI I like to think it’s somewhere far from the shore
Deep under the sea among the sea anemones
Untouched and resigned to its fate.
I am now old and grey and waiting for Death
To laugh at me.
* * *
AT HER LOVER’S FUNERAL
She looks at his pallid face.
How surreal the strangeness
Of his countenance!
At once it seems she doesn’t
Know him anymore.
Inside the coffin
He recognizes not her mournful face.
Do lovers become strangers
At one’s funeral?
Oh, God, what have you done to him?
She shouts in her brain.
Why take my lover away?
I’m now lonely like a love-bird
Whose mate has flown away
Never to come back.
She picks a red rose from the wreath
Presses her lips upon the petals
And gently places it
On the coffin’s glass top.
“Farewell, my beloved!
This I give you with my aching heart.
I can’t hold you now close in my arms.
I can’t kiss your lips anymore.”
* * *
THE FLIGHT OF THE WHITE DOVE
The white dove has flown away
From the middle east
Fearful of the clash of kinsmen
And kindred, trailing the path of the wind
To the southeast where a mighty giant
Has awakened and claims the south seas
All her own.
Hear the cry of the white dove.
Silently she prays under the old moon,
“Let there be peace here lest the skie darken
And the seas become poisonous,
The air sick!”
The white dove has flown back
To the middle east still fearful
Of the clash of warring kinsmen
And their kindred.