Saturday, September 27, 2014


Waters of  seven springs
Flowed for  so many  years,
And never came to a halt,
They rushed  marvelously, churning,
  Against the rocks and roots ,
Running anxiously  to our water fall
Sweet , turbulent;
 Brighter than  ghostly beetles.
Crushing  into the purest  foams  ,
To mirror,  for a moment,
 The cold rays  of  Motherland,
Splashing, then, down the tower ,
  Over the old  Sage’s bower ,
Who was practicing the reality  of non-being, ,
Under  the ripe -heavenly pomegranates
Around the  bluest billabong …where
 We swam for a   hundred years ,
With the bones of our  ancestors ,
 Until  someday  a sphinx ,
 Showed us how fragile,
  Our so called  Fathers were ,
Even ,the sage  disappeared,
Squeaking. , after it was too late,
‘Darling ,  run," screamed he..
"OH,  holy father ,  we have  already  gone."


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