Young unreal wrinkles crevice my face this year,
and my eyes grow weak with knowledge light.
My hands are shaking, pain in my back and feet alike,
from my rubbed out eyes come not one tear.
My eyebrows raised for I cannot help to wonder,
what lies will I take to believe and plead?
And which battles shall I pick, and what bridge will have water under?
What race can I win to win my dreams?
Mountains may be high and rivers all too deep,
with men on walls always watching to spring to justice.
But a strangely beating heart pierces every nerve in me,
so barefoot and naked I level my judgement.
A darling's kiss from across my world,
enough to lead me through all nine circles.
'Merci, merci! ' she cries in the night, this girl,
she pleads to be freed from her whitened red circus.
Her hair a mess, never has the world seen more beauty,
than this girl with a smile through any cold night.
She'd be there in a second had I asked any court jury,
but thankfully I'm hers, as long as she'll be called mine.
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Comments about this poem (Circus Girl by TheSilent Loudness )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
Carolyn Ford Witt
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
Mewlana Jalaluddin Rumi
(1207 - 1273)
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