PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Pouring fire from above rushing sun,

Set to witness quilt of its own stake.



Brushing his forehead sweat,

He took a bite of the trembling air,

And stretched his eye-reach far,

To the bend of the horizon line.



S a m e -

Echoed between the rested yellow-rust waves-like surface,

Soaked in a thought of a good year.



Quiet seeps in quiet;

Huss, then glitch of pause,

Until another faded huss away.

Not even a bird dares to disturb

The swift smooth motion of

The sharp hooks in changing hands,

Swinging strong grips in thick skin,

Burning blistered pain evoked to numb:

Sustained half day’ strength,

The kinks in kilts on kinsfolk’s infested land.

Hussing small steps rhythm, oozing from the dust,

Provoking his moaning song above the lament riot:



A drink of water,

A knell of lost daughter;

Wolves howl chill- until

Next rushing summer.

Sweet harvest- golden wheat

To river in the dried mills,

Soon to be bread…

And prey for rain to heal

The busted ground!



Wet kerchiefs rap around tired heads,

Heavy arms buried in the soil,

Tightened fascicles, fingers molded by the precious sprigs,

Palms, burned around the cuts sheaf by sheaf.



Some summers passed in same dry huss,

But now a younger song is shifting above the lea.

He stays aside and wipes his weakened eyes;

And tries to see as far as sight could reach:



S a m e -

His tidy smile let his breathe free.

Few rust-like stems are rolling off his hands,

To meet the land where many of them

Next rushing summer will burn again…