i, the writer, yet never am i pleased
whatever been penned down never succeeds
to my expectations, nor to my needs
for the meanin' of words seem to get ceased

i, the gardener, be sowin' this seed
whatever to be said shall never reach
for hearin' be all different to each
no poet am i, no artist indeed

i, be as just human, as i could reach
understandin' alone my heart shall lead
'tis knowledge upon which my mind does feed
no fame, nor admirers, that i beseech

i may be hopin' just someone to read
these ways my letters on paper do bleed

(or maybe how they be finally freed)

*
..love always...



عرفان بن يوسف © AH 08/03/1439