الاثنين، 23 يونيو 2014

Rain: a poem

what is there to think about the wisps of melancholy
ever so skillfully they decline
as they penetrate the dome that not yet has been condemned 
of granting the troops of sorrow a pass on which they do not even repent
wheres they deny the act of looting the unstable terrain of a chance to withstand yet another permeate
 who's task would it be to mend the incisions made in vain

nay

who's duty would it be to allow us all to comprehend 
that the troops of sorrow are but soldiers of life and sustenance

say

what is there to think about the drops of mercy ever so gracefully they descend
as they tap on the dome that not yet has been acknowledged 
the glory of what it does for us to be maintained
to bring life upon beings that no longer appreciate nor represent
the divine deed to create, the need to resurrect 

say, once more

what are we to think about how water and air make love 
are we to think them wisps of melancholy or drops of mercy 
or simply declare them like every other grace and curse
 as a mystery from above