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.
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.
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.
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?