A poet is a soldier that's always at war with himself.

He jumps the train
as the wheels come
to a screeching halt
darkness covers him
he runs, legs flip in the air
he pants, looks back
the armed men sleep
relief
a chill in the night air
his skin reveals
the moon hides
he stumbles
powerful will to survive
sounds of the forest flourish
thick with brush
closer
the last struggle
it embraces him
freedom

it is a lovely sunny summer day
and yet the atmosphere feels different

as if a chilling haze had cast a net
over the luscious green of nature
darkened the pond‘s bright sparkles
made flowers droop their faces to the ground
trees sway their branches somberly
people look strangely serious

I guess it is the news that reaches us
along the ether waves
feeds our mobile phones  tvs  and radios
all about deaths  corruption  wannabe dictators
catastrophies  lack of support

no wonder the views of our world
are rather solemn
even on the brightest days

I feel your thoughts turn
in the wild plum twilight,

as we stroll from
the crooked grocery

to the empire
of mauve carpets.

Your hand draws tight.
Your eye is wet and sharp.

You don't need to say it,
I know the hue and tint

of your just heart,
I feel the cutting wave.

In Arabic, "poetry"
is related to "hair" -

both things sense
the world so finely.

Well, let this poem
know you as gently

as your Rapunzel's hair
knows the evening air

winding through silver
avenues of moon.