The fiery wind burns our skin
this simmering summer noon
but our resolve is not paper thin.

the river is all ours
I tell her
and she whispers love notes.

When we retreat under the banyan
she scans the grey for clouds
and I her eyes for a mystic hint.

how lovely it would be
if it rains now
she says.

it would
I swear by the river.

We walk away
dreaming good crop
swaying in the river wind.

Heavy chested I breathe
as the moon whitewashes the night.

The season is changing
and in the wind is the vapor of hyacinth
in the thick of which
the glowworms drink the nectar of night.

They have no philosophy and I have many
like while they dance just for the sake of life
my mind enveloped in obscurity
has shackled my feet and clipped my wings.

I wonder if the glowworms have a mind
that knows when they dance
they have an audience.

Maybe the stars know the same way
when they twinkle.

Up the steep steps
as you reach the age old fort,
you breathless behold
the green valley down below
and that magnificent mound of rock
by the name Robinson Hill.

In the sweet silence of birds' chirping,
the winds reek of rifles and gun smoke
and you hear not the rustling leaves
but bullets echoing all over the valley
one more down, another down
as they held the fort till fell breathless
passing into tombs and memorials
you read to pause for a breath
up above the green valley
where the grasses grew over the blood.

A girl sobbing in the corner
writing down poems of her life.
She writes,
the flowers she touched died;
the people she kept cried and left.
Her past is her reflection
and in the future she cries
for that she has chaotic mind and rotten hands.

All the ones I
Love the most have

Someone they love
More than me.

The truth of it is
Beautiful;

That lonely knowing
Sets me free.

The legless fly,
The voiceless sing.

There's love in every
Living thing.

And in that love
I bask and laugh,

Composing my own
Epitaph:

All gods are real, and
Therefore none, and

Hell hath merely
Room for one.

All the ones I love
The most

May barely know a
Man from ghost.

I love their rains, their
Suns and soils,

Their loving others form
The spoils that go

To me right where I
Stand to see:

I need not even
Me.

I wrote a poem
hoping to give
it to you, will you
even read it?

I wrote it with an aching
heart, will you
ever read it?

The poem I wrote
was given a melody,
will you, will you
even hear it?

I am not a singer
nor a great writer
but will you
even hear my
heart?

will you?


© Pax

are so small, like a stain
unseen
hiding in plain
sight
just waiting
to be found
remains invisible
like its never around.

Our humanity has nothing
To do with your ego...*


@pax