Ailanthus Altissima: Poetry

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11/11/2021

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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