11/11/2021
Groves of green
Grown old as time
The whistle of wind
It's lonely chime
By lowly frond –
And vines litehly twined
Its silence, I concur
The most beloved of hymn
Of unmoving oak
And purest Pine
Assuredly, touch –
A holy crime
Of streams unbroken
And basins divine
By brooks of arcadia
idyllic in kind
I pray,
Dreary, do I pray
Praying for a friable breath
unfilled, even –
To morsel this euphony of soul
Isa Ul-Hassan
Comments