To the Goddess of morn
who made bread from fire
and taught me how to read
to read the wreaths of coffee
into the songs of dawn.

And to the Mason who
showed me how to hammer,
form out of chaos
and cherish the scent of
the cement on grey-green walls.

© LazharBouazzi

Look no further than yourself,
be your own lamp
your own refuge.

The rain washed sky found a mirror in his eyes.

Yet for some time as the end neared
he was hearing an echo
from the deep well of nirvana
urging his weary feet toward a home
his aeons ago.

The frail bones feeling the pull
drove his weary feet through rains
to be on that land one last time.

Look no further
for howsoever long is the journey
must come to an end at home.

That night as he lay under the śāl tree
they strained to hear him whisper

All composite things decay,
strive diligently.

Head* turning back away,
a bird flies past the last ray,
But when I wake up beside you
all my worries gets washed away.
 
Over a lake filled with tranquility
Wings glide glorifying the sanctity,
Like I have held you close
Trapped in your face’s bright ubiquity.
 
Heels just touching the floor,
On top of hill, it silently soars
Like when we kiss, my love,
My heart keeps craving for more.

For the lush green to grow,
a healthy seed we hopefully sow,
as your smile when you look at me
always lifts my mood when I am low.
 
You hold my hand to ease my pain
Giving me a lifetime of gain,
All I can say while I hug you tight
Our deeds will never go in vain.

Old. New. Borrowed. Blue.
I wrote to you about putting
Down my shield.
Opening up.
Still, wounded as I am;
When you speak of marriage
I run like the opposite
Of a Viking.

I have battles.
Fight better without worries
For a loved one awaiting my
Return.
Visit me when I'm wounded.
Bring water. I'll have new scars
For your lips to
Learn.

You were a beautiful triangle
In love with an old,
Stubborn square.

You deserve a brighter spark
Than mine.
You are fireworks, I am a

Foot-warming bonfire;
Embers tired and content with
Being such.

Grow. Live. Light up the sky.
I will admire you from here.
I have roots to outgrow your

Feathers.
Holding back?
I'll never wish your wings away.

Find pleasure in mud or gold.
I am too old a judge to speak.
Thank you, triangle.

You have three points to
My four. That's age.
Nothing more.

Soft sounds of rain through
The open window. Each drop
Landing in wet grass is
A hammer to our hearts.

To feel alone is nothing new,
But I see myself through satelite
Images, afloat dead centering
The ocean,

Biting and clawing at the
Ropes that hold my raft
Together; too afraid of water
Not to drown.  

Silence like tanks rolling out
Of a devastated war zone.  
Let's wrap this up, and my
Pulse escalates to an emergency

Frequency open to recieve any
Mayday or SOS, but my hands
Are too numb to telegraph.
Instead I find myself wiping

Rain and sweat from my face
With mud covered fingers in the
Headlights of a parked car,
Digging a grave

The size of something dead that
Holds secret things, like Love's
True name, or God's, or
Those of my

Future children if ever they be,
Or the hidden meanings behind a
Brutally meaningless
Break-up.