Saturday, October 31, 2009

c p aboobacker


And my soul claims her wholesome

Today morning
Birds lost their feathers
Plants their flowers
Mountains their dales
Deer its horns
And I lost my pen

Piercing out of my heart
The lark has flown away
Heavens have claimed her songs
Angels her smiles
God her soul
And my soul claims her wholesome

She had a bird in the cage
A falcon with screeching cries
And with a sharp beak
Ready to break love and ties
It had a fragrance
Spread everywhere in the labyrinth

The tree is still there tall and high
With a lightness of cool and warmth
Standing sentinel to soldiers of love
Shading a roof for fighters of lust
Beyond the hamlets of stags
Orchards of butterflies
And slums of values and priests.

The Shepherd of flames
The shepherd of flames
Eats with his tongue extended
He has no hands
In the end
He has only the will to destroy
In the oven
In the chamber of suicide
On the battle fields
And in wild fires
Black tongues remain
That can't be seen.
He has limitless wealth
But it's of no use to him
He will combust
And after
Fly in ashes
In breezes.
His spouse
Will bring sticks to the fire
They will crack and burn
She will romanticize the fire
Pouring olive oil
And after
She will wear
A rope of hemp grass
Or of crushed palm leaves
Around her neck.