Dark night lies still & milky moon floats
high,
There is nothing astir, but sweet perfumed sigh,
Across stone-garden-walls, soft scented whispers,
Heralding in new dawn, as wept dewdrop glisters.
The blooms tell gentle stories, in scented old
tales,
Touching tough hearts, that are, as hard as
old nails,
Pretty flowers, in perfumes, wax lyrical, their
telling,
Within watering of dried eyes, oasis of their
welling.
Ancient poetry is spoken, by herbs, shrubs &
old trees,
All kissed by sweet birds & bowing down
of gold bees,
Butterflies carry messages, from rosebuds to
wild sage,
No sweeter words be scribed, by Bard upon white
page.
All idioms conversed, in scents & fragrances
perfumed,
Heard by avid noses & not by cloth ears,
as assumed,
In silence, upon soft waftings, their voices
are heard,
Drifting in essences, within the songs without
words.
No comments:
Post a Comment