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My father used to bring home kites
from Pakistan,
made out of colorful paper
and thin sticks.

Mine was pink and blue,
and caught my eye as soon
as it was taken out.
It was beautiful,
and i imagined it soaring through
the skies,
viewable from all the houses in town.

The yarn was grey,
and had minuscule shards of glass
woven within it.
My father told me that it was for kite fighting,
the way they used to do it from the rooftops
of the villages.

One would fly the kite
and the other would be in charge of the spool.
Together, they would change altitudes
and attempt to cut other kite strings.
The last kite left in the air would be the winner.

And my mind would run to those rooftops,
the very sand ridden rooftops he had described.
Imaginarily controlling the kite
with a friend handling the spool behind me.
Together winning the kite fighter crown,
and my father being proud of his only son.

All while i lay in bed,
with a grand imagination,
and not a single clue
on how to make the last thought a reality.
why do i 'ave this feelin' of people disturbin' me
when i am in thoughts talkin' to Thee
why 'tis that others, i cannot see
when all i want to be, in my mind with Thee

Thy Power as Thy Blessin' upon me
right here in my head i can always meet
those very standards that in life should be
to Whom to be turnin' to but to Thee

yes to him, Thy Special Chosen One
his own whether before, or after him be

for if not with Thee, Thy Beloved be
the One i am turnin' to, gettin' closer to Thee
if not with Thee, Thy Beloved Ones be
those examples Thine, sent by Thee


..love always...



عرفان بن يوسف © AH 29/11/1439
'a (freestyle rhymescheme) Sonnet'

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