I was picking flowers and you were praising smoke.
The echoes of that last time linger on.
Birds pieced from the gray quilt of the dusk
Sang mighty wholeness that is ever lost.
I held your face like summer in my hands.
The warmth was various, a rare suncut.
Wind played your tune through simple blades of grass.
You never heard it, but I hear it still.
Muse India
There's nothing more to say, except this is another one of your materpieces. Thankyou for the beauty.---Melvina
My favourite lines Sandra, 'Wind played your tune through simple blades of grass. You never heard it, but I hear it still'. Dont we just love to get carried away by the drift of the wind. Bravo.Lisa
You paint such large pictures with very few words and weave them into a mosaic magnificently. Magnifico!
The uniqueness of this poem lies in its ability to transcend the very feelings of grief and loss that constitute its raison d’être. In spite of the birds’ song of the “mighty wholeness that is ever lost”, the tune of the lost beloved is incessantly played by the wind “through simple blades of grass”. The continuity of the tune, through the echoes, endows the lost one with a new life, emphasizing the fact that such loss, though painful, can never be ultimate.
Your poetry sparkles in all dimensions! Great expression Sandra dear. Appreciated this wonderful poem.
A wonderful blend of nature and nostalgia echo throughout taking the reader on a journey through a sequence of visuals where memories are recalled with such clarity. I particularly like the line 'birds pieced from the grey quilt of the dusk'...one to savour and re read.
You never heard it, but I hear it still.............. i never forget it, but i hear it for ever.................
Wonderful …’… I held your face like summer in my hands….’ It’s you held warmth of bosom…well poemed… 10+ Ms. Nivedita UK
usually sounds echoes... but visuals echoes unusually.....like minded people can listen to your heart...so poetic and deep love...........
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
The whispering of grass is very painful and sharper than it's edges. The songs of flowers and praising smoke echoes forever. The fragrance of your rare & rich vocabulary is everlasting............!