Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

The mountain stream, pure and cold flows
swiftly into pumpkin and juniper seeds and docile rivers
no higher than a knee,
and the river bends through
the painted earth and snakes its way into the myopic sea.

The bloodstone roots with childhood's end.
The moon, hanging loosely, shape-shifts into images,
clouds
blow away like old men puffing on hand-rolled cigars.

Another drop of water into the ocean does not change its surface
stillness.
Life is an invitation. Ephemeral links to all that is tender. All that
is webbed green.
Walls are mud and stone metaphors with lopsided ears.

I no longer tether God nor my camel, I don't build walls in the middle
of nowhere; I don't burden my sad-eyed donkey with swirling sand
or minarets of prayer.

When you come, come empty-handed, my Beloved, return to me
nothing but your presence. Nothing but your love.

Kailashana wrote:When you come, come empty-handed, my Beloved, return to me
nothing but your presence. Nothing but your love.

...smells like smokey gin and tastes like dates and honey: intoxicating and sweet: very nice.

Thank you. Glad that those two lines meant something.

~A

Much more than just those two lines. Thanks!

Ah yes, but what gives meaning is the love that is shared. Most of us are busy looking for something else, yes?




~A