A memory of silence, slow rain,
Of a damp violet, unwritten poems,
A shepherd’s call, the laziness of the falling snow,
And a wind taking birth among sleepy pines.
The mountains seem to have swallowed
The cry of every dawn, a soldier’s bones
And the distance between a falling leaf and the ground.
Yet they are calm as if you were absent
Like nothing has walked past their burning valleys
and no one has wept
Not even a black bird for her unborn child.
Sometimes, suddenly they come alive
The mountains breathe through wandering horse trails,
Wet honey bees and the faint bleat of a lamb.
No sooner they get quite like a cemetery
Than they drown their solitude in my tiny palms.
Perhaps someday they will wake up on my breasts
And remember that they too have a heart
A nice poetic imagination, Reshma. You may like to read my poem, Love and Lust. Thanks
BUBBLES are round objects of beauty floating free through even the gentlest breeze So beautiful! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Come alive and face the truth. Thanks for sharing this poem with us.