Rooftops,
those entities, that protect & are closest to God,
Protecting
& covering life, from dangerous elements & sod,
Shacks topped
with tin, twigs, cardboard or old dry reeds,
A roof over
the heads & one of living´s basic covered needs.
Old minaret´s
fingers, touching heavenly & rose-kissed sky,
Pagodas, curling
their oriental smiles, where clouds softly lie,
Steeples,
stretching long fingers of their pointed praying hands,
And rotund
contented domes slumber, embraced by far-off lands.
Reaching for
rainbows, old treetops aim in grey & gothic mists,
Heads asleep
beneath leaves, adobe & grass laid out in wisps,
Rooftops higher
than us all, within our snug & night-time beds,
But closest
rooftops to the Gods are the tops of small babe’s heads.
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