Thyme Poem by Hanan Muzafar

As I was going down,
Through trenches and dungeons,
where light waits to dwell—
I saw,
A horse galloping wild,
Through meadows and in twilight.

Oh, my poor little foe,
How can you confront,
when you need someone,
and fate meets you,
where you don't even expect—
It's meant to accept,
As thy will be done.

With whom,
your desire to be alone,
It ain't in them,
It's here,
watching over, and with you.

Rusted weapons lying in dust,
and thyme grown on them—
The way it torments us,
Thine Eden, and thy inferno.