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From the glass that is black
And our own cedars,
Gone mad to fragrance,
Should we compose a room
On the porch of our Home…
In our own window
They kill me, a young boy and
August rain and russet flowers
With green succulent stalks,
Break into it, break into us, break it into, break us into…
Pieces, would we leap from the
Debris of our grief and
Crystallize into one Heart, Home…
Through the knots,
Green, yellow, saffron brown
And the color of this land,
Of our torn language and the history
Of our shared pain, we leap,
Shards turned to ghosts and tie
Into the threads of the pain,
The life of our one Heart........
And cry, Home! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !
feroz rather
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