.

i

In a silky wind of early summer

That blows over hills in my motherland

Come sweet, foreign scents wrapped in warm murmur,

What they speak – mystery; though some say what is planned.

ii

If one were to gaze atop from the cliffs

Down into the gorge spanning the decor,

They might view wonders akin to old glyphs

That resonate inside and shake them to the core.

iii

I still remember the quiet riverbed

By which I would lie and rest on warm eves,

The peace of the world would imbue and spread

Through my love-weary soul and, with me, all night, grieve.

iv

Imagine you could hear the beating drum

Of my sweet folly, slash, melancholy,

Imagine they spoke in a rhyming thrum

The truths of my silence, what would they say really?

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Hear here!