Rocks

For all the wide world thinks,
There is that beautiful stream by the rock.
They play around.
None asks the rock.
None have seen it bleed but for one.
Life recognized is life given.
A rock cannot talk to anyone else.
For everybody sees it as the prop.
The rock, it remains a prop.
But every now and then it smiles.
Every now and then.
He is afraid of never smiling again.
And a rock lies a lot.
In its nature not to show life.
He still sees his limits.
He cannot move.
She don't arrive.
He has but his company.
A lot many squat by it.
But she thinks a rock would find another.
For if she can someone else can do.
Rock is quiet.
He counts his smiles.
For he knows, off that count,
Rest of his will be but a rock.

On looking up

When I look up,
I call not for heavens.
Nor do I love the blue.
The stars distract,
So does the morning hue.
The twilight haunts,
For I know not the clouds.
So big a sky,
A heart to find solace.
Too big a sky,
For a heart to sleep.
All that I yearn
Is for a lap to dream,
Close my eyes,
For the eternal dream.

The old djinn

At the bottom of a sea,
There was a djinn,
All mottled and gray,
Wishes he could grant not,
But a lap did hold sway.
Treasure did many find,
But wishes were never there.
Every keeper threw a lamp away,
The djinn could no more bear.
Said he to the god of djinn's,
Release me from this life dear.
For as the gods would say,
The voices were never near.
And so a djinn lived,
And till this day stories I hear.
Tales of wistful patrons,
Stories of abandon and leer.
The other djinns mock him still,
The djinn still holds dear.
A memory where he traded,
For his wish, a day of the seer.
That day he wants back,
But he has lost his gear.
Magic quickens him not,
For that was the trade made.
He waits forever in the lamp,
For every wish he held dear.

shadows

A silence pervades
Haven't reached you in ages.
For a part that is of me,
Silence within scares me.
Every nuance plays with me,
A game I can never win.
A voice tells me to reason,
Things that seem,
Will not always be.
But a child that was alone,
To grave does he a shiver carry.
For every passing moment reminds.
The sun does not love.
For if the moon were absent,
He is but a shadow.

my flower tree

A flower I will seek.
That what I am this day,
This world will not succor me.
A thousand lives to seek,
A thousand deaths too weak.
In a thousand will I live,
And still the next I will seek.
A breath is too long,
A life still so weak,
In moments is life made,
In moments life I seek.
My flower this be your world,
This world for you is meek.
Will seek a world not mine,
For mine is not mine to keep.
Answers are not in words,
Nor do words a secret keep.
What a moment has told,
Has taken a thousand to keep.
A thousand more I shall live 
A thousand more yet to die,
Till I am born of hope,
In your shadows shall I seek.

The river and a rock

The river had to flow its way,
For its nature is never to be bound,
Rocks can but impede a flow,
But in time to its will bend,
The trees have to be fed,
Many meadows need the song,
Of flowing water and the nightingale song.
To love is river bound,
The love of ocean to be.
Let those that have chosen to be with
Wash in its glory and leave it to be.
The dwellers know not its worth,
For they live small lives,
Lives too short to see a river step
From their shores to shores unclaimed,
From their lives to change others within.

A rock sleeps on its bed,
It holds memories of another day.
The river flows a little apart,
Its paths have a little change.
The bed has been cut and glisten still,
In colors of stone the twilight plays.
The rock is not the rock anymore,
For it holds memories of moisture within!
The heart of the rock has flown away,
For it stands on its bed a little low.
The green trees have moved on,
So have the birds that sang,
Farther is the melody that the river brought,
The rock today stands alone.
The rock but will sit ages,
And wait for the nightingale to sing.
A rock can but look thither and wait,
For the melody, only the river can bring,
 

My love

What little do strange paths offer,
Voices that lead on to our fates.
What is but known of paths we take,
Are the days we tell our tales.

Tales of evenings lost in retrospect,
Of events there was a tell we see,
But for slights we have ballads,
Forgone are the dreams of me.

Where can I put my head at rest,
But a lap has been stolen of me,
In doubt does our hearts dwell,
Where can find my heart, my love.