"bleating" poems
Lambs that learn to walk in snow
When their bleating clouds the air
Meet a vast unwelcome, know
Nothing but a sunless glare.
Newly stumbling to and fro
All they find, outside the fold,
Is a wretched width of cold.
As they wait beside the ewe,
Her fleeces wetly caked, there lies
Hidden round them, waiting too,
Earth's immeasureable surprise.
They could not grasp it if they knew,
What so soon will wake and grow
Utterly unlike the snow.
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I heard the footsteps as they came across the road;
The snap of hurried feet outside the house.
Shapes in the moonlight, a voice in the darkness,
A knock at the door, I heard the dogs barking.
The bleating of the flock,
The chatter of the birds amongst the trees,
I recall the whisper of the morning breeze;
Hyphening the broken silence as two boys stole about the house;
It was midnight in August 99.
Two sparks set out to chase the bang!
Bang! ~ set them running.
I cut them down; I cut them down!
I heard the sirens as the cops sped off the road;
The squeal of hurried wheels outside the house.
shapes in the moonlight, a voice in the darkness,
A knock at the door, I heard the dogs barking.
The bleating of the flock,
The chatter of the birds amongst the trees,
I recall the whisper of the morning breeze;
Hyphening the broken silence as two cops stole about the house;
It was midnight in August 99.
Two cops set out to chase the bang; Bang!
I put my hands up and the cops took me down!
Judge I’m guilty, it’s true for everything they said I did; I did!
But there were reasons, don’t you see:
These boys; they were bullying me!
I called the cops on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Monday, came round again; still no one came; drove me insane;
Two sparks set out to chase the bang!
Bang set them running; I cut them down!
Two cops set out to chase the bang!
Bang! Yes, I put my hands up!
and the cops took me down!
But Mr Wolf gave me twenty,
and the circus came to town;
for as a victim I was lonely;
but as a killer; as a killer; I was crowned.
Newsworthy, top of the heap, the talk of the town!
Mar 9, 2018
Mar 9, 2018 at 2:40 PM UTC
JANUARY
Delightful display
Snowdrops bowing pure white heads
To the sun’s glory.
FEBRUARY
Fresh green buds appear
Indicating spring will soon
Energise us all.
MARCH
Lambs gambol in fields
Frisky with the joys of life
Bleating happily.
APRIL
Bluebells stand so proud
Beneath trees now sparsely dressed
Fresh green leaves unfold.
MAY
Much awaited sound
Echoes heard amid dense trees
Cuckoo has arrived.
JUNE
Parks and gardens burst
With sounds and vibrant colours
Perfect harmony.
JULY
Beaches become full
Of families having fun
In sand and big waves.
AUGUST
Ripe golden harvest
Burning sun in azure skies
Labours rewarded.
SEPTEMBER
Swallows congregate
On telephone wires ready
To migrate down south.
OCTOBER
Red and gold leaves fall,
Crunchy as cornflakes beneath
Feet on a crisp morn.
NOVEMBER
Frosty webs sparkle
In the early morning sun
Brightly bejewelled.
DECEMBER
First few flakes of snow
Dust gardens like icing on
A chocolate cake.
Jan 18, 2012
Jan 18, 2012 at 12:44 PM UTC
This poem casts a line from insomnia to morning
On the wind of a prayer that whatever bites, holds on.
See I have counted eleven score and ten,
with rainbow like curves of my neck -
contemptuous beasts leaping in formation
each bleating out a preach of vague platitudes;
A narrative for the night sky.
My hands clamour at keys for escape
until I tumble headfirst into a web so vast
it has ensnared the whole world wide -
millennials are living in-ter-net over in-the-world;
a new ultraviolence against humanity.
I beat my words into the screen until it breaks;
shattering scarlet emoticons like confetti
pouring over language as if it were a compliment.
My mind massages shapeless polypous thoughts
like tight constricted muscles aching for release.
3am casts these philosophies into horses,
whipping them into shape and speed
before the eyes of this statuesque ******
This anxious wakefulness begs my manic self to dance;
suggestively ********* tickets to ride like cleavage.
Sleep is fast becoming a neglected former engagement;
as my mind trips over fallen heroes
wades through my favourite mistakes
in a wonderland unfolding faster than I can fall
while the world beyond my window remains dark.
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 10:52 PM UTC
Little lamb, lone in the brush
Without a mother’s feed.
Who is to groom the gloss
Of her delicate clothing?
Little lamb, who sings to me,
Unlettered melodies,
Why does she wag forth
These eyes of rust—
In pensive gloat ache
Sipped sinews of her throat?
Little Lamb, bleating to bleed,
Ventures frail, tender limbs
Deep within Tophet’s Vale.
Meek, she slips in buried sheets.
Little Lamb, orchid chewed to root
Bask and bathe the moon
Twixt her thighs.
Splayed upon pastures
Nourished with tears.
Wine spilled into the milk of being.
She drinks the rich grain.
Jul 28, 2021
Jul 28, 2021 at 4:42 PM UTC
Two crowned Kings, and One that stood alone
With no green weight of laurels round his head,
But with sad eyes as one uncomforted,
And wearied with man’s never-ceasing moan
For sins no bleating victim can atone,
And sweet long lips with tears and kisses fed.
Girt was he in a garment black and red,
And at his feet I marked a broken stone
Which sent up lilies, dove-like, to his knees.
Now at their sight, my heart being lit with flame,
I cried to Beatrice, ‘Who are these?’
And she made answer, knowing well each name,
‘AEschylos first, the second Sophokles,
And last (wide stream of tears!) Euripides.’
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The stink of fish on earthen streets
A hot wind blows from ochre hills
Black faces shine with brilliant teeth
Street market ***** doth cure all ills.
Redness in her plaited hair
Rhythm in her steady tread
A harmony of balance, she carries
Water jars on her head.
A market girl is singing
As she sits among bananas
The drama in her music
Is as dusty as the street,
It fills the air with magic
As it lilts above street chatter
In the atmosphere of Africa
Where new and ancient meet.
The goat boy herds his docile flock
Through camel trains and bales
The steamer tethered at the dock
Announces that she sails
With billowed steam and mournful wail
It echoes through the town
And the planter and his agent
Bargain with a harried frown.
The bleating of the goat herd
And the stench of fish and dung
Is as ordinary as Africa
In the searing mid day sun.
Zanzibar is spices, Zanzibar is Stone.
Club Zanzibar is whiskey on the rocks
Consumed alone
Or shared upon the balcony
In the shadow of a palm
With the turquoise Indian ocean
Reaching out beyond the arm.
Do you see the dhows are sailing?
Do you see the fishing nets?
Do you hear the oarsmen chanting?
Did you see black muscle flex?
Have you watched the dripping sweat
Cascade on alabaster brow?
Have you inhaled the scent of Africa
And allowed it to allow?
Colobus monkeys in the treetops
Narrow lanes in the bazaar
Dull white walls adorn stone buildings
And the rupee is by far
The favorite tenure of the Island
Since the days when slaves were sold
By Arab camel caravaners
Who traded coin for young black gold.
East and west collide in concert
Africa and Asia blend
The Sultan's mix of race and spice
In Zanzibar, beyond lands end.
Marshalg
Mangere Bridge
3rd June 2008
Oct 13, 2009
Oct 13, 2009 at 11:06 PM UTC
The bleating of the newborn lambs
As they prance about the fields
Yellow of the rapeseed
Prepare for summers yield
Birds twitter on every bough
While making up their nests
Tapping of the woodpecker
Pointed beak and coloured crest
Gone the snowdrops and daffodils
Now bluebells carpet the floor
Wild garlic with its pungent smell
You may dislike or adore
Seasons change so quickly
As time passes on its way
No beauty can compare
To nature day by day
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 11:25 AM UTC
Teasing the beast
Looking for a feast
Hounds barking at our ears
Vultures flying up ahead
Circling a bald eagle's fresh corpse
Compartmentalizing symptom after symptom
To hide the great systematic sickness
Labeling the suffering, outcome from desire
We, wholeheartedly accepting being
Appropriated, labeled, discarded
As construing our own oppression and sadness
Enduring the **** of our minds
Being castrated of our consciousness
Before we reap the products
Of its bold liberation and grandness
Its the belly of the beast
And its hungry
Insatiable, amoral entrails
Hoping to salvage a feast
From the casualties of d(e)moc(ratic) wars
Hoping we feed our monstrous fear
Thirsting for the greed
Dripping off of accumulating wealths
Impatiently waiting, we keep parceling out grudges
Disfiguring our minds, our souls, and our bodies
Its misanthropic nature lashes out without conscience
Knowing we'll never realize we are masses
Disappearing the individuals who realize their suffering
Ensuring there's no collective opposition or action
Trying to reassure we are weak
Knowing at some point or another
We all act mute, deaf, and blind when anyone experiences:
Oppression
Pain
Silencing
****
Hunger
Fear
Violence
Repression
Retaliation
Discrimination
Torture
Negation
Alienation
All forms of mental, psychological, physical, and spiritual mutilation
Fearing death more than fighting for necessary abolishment
Preferring to live out our veiled miseries
Endorsing their continuance
Instead of risking our lives for everyone's liberation
Always ensuring the feast of the beast
By its very efforts trying to decree our very human nature
Ingraining greed, fear, animosity, and weakness as if inherent of us
All parts of its most damaging weapon: the seed of discord
Its implantation, a socialized deep desire for self-preservation
Sheep bleating painfully toward our ears
Vultures flying up ahead
Circling a bald eagle's fresh corpse
Signifying the impending recapturing
Of our true transformative desires
May 4, 2013
May 4, 2013 at 11:30 PM UTC
The world is indeed flat.
When we fell
from the star
into the box,
shades of amber colored the walls.
People were like sheep,
following the flock.
In their stupid
uniforms
until they crashed
face first into the side
dazed disoriented dizzy.
We followed them and
the box
became smaller.
We started walking
like them,
talking
like them.
And our prattle
echoed
and
hopped,
bleating
from corner to corner.
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 6:46 PM UTC
I'm ****** off with Robert Frost
And the guy who wrote Paradise Lost.
I ain't happy with Aristotle,
And especially John, the weird Apostle.
Don't mention, please, Shelley or Keats,
Blake, Byron or Yeats;
Each and every one you see,
(if you're ready for some truth)
Took their themes from me.
Don't look aghast,
Don't tsk and titter,
Their thievery's left me
Mean and bitter.
Just because they said it first,
Doesn't mean I find it just.
It doesn't give them ownership
Of my themes and authorship.
I write of Roads, Good and Evil,
God and Satan, love and leaving.
I know I'm internally bleating,
But I can't abide this metric beating.
Although they're merely dust and bones,
They don't have the right to own
All the great lines I have sown:
The best laid plans of mice and men.
(I said that before Robbie Burns).
Let me make this poeticaly clear;
***If I was there, or he were here,
I'd sue the *** of Will Shakespeare***.
May 11, 2018
May 11, 2018 at 9:31 AM UTC
Where be ye going, you Devon maid?
And what have ye there i' the basket?
Ye tight little fairy, just fresh from the dairy,
Will ye give me some cream if I ask it?
I love your meads, and I love your flowers,
And I love your junkets mainly,
But 'hind the door, I love kissing more,
O look not so disdainly!
I love your hills, and I love your dales,
And I love your flocks a-bleating;
But O, on the heather to lie together,
With both our hearts a-beating!
I'll put your basket all safe in a nook,
Your shawl I'll hang up on this willow,
And we will sigh in the daisy's eye,
And kiss on a grass-green pillow.
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I remember quite distinctly
The night the Angel came
Hovering above my field
And calling me by name
Fred, the Angel yelled to me
Waking all my sheep
I yelled "you stupid ****** twit"
I've just got them to sleep
He said a king was born to man
And I must go to see
I said, "I've got these bleating sheep"
I don't do this for free
The angel said follow the star
All the way to Bethlehem
I told him, you must be ****** daft
My next shift starts at ten
I've been around the world a bit
And I've seen a lot of stunts
But this angel hung right in the air
And his wings did not flap once
He said there is a child
And he will be the King of Kings
I didn't really listen much
I was still watching those **** wings
The sheep were going batty
The field was bight as bright could be
I said, of all the shepherds round here
Why did you come wake me?
He said to travel swiftly
And to follow yonder star
I said, I'm off to bed mate
I'm not going on that far
Then there came a bolt of lightning
He had barbecued a ewe
I thought this bird means business
I mean just what could I do?
I left my flock with Charlie
The shepherd two fields over one
And I said I'll be back soon mate
I'm off to see the holy son
I met up with some others
All of us had the same tale
Of an angel flinging lightning
So we all felt we best bail....
I got there in December
I'd been travelling for months
The only thing I thought of
Those wings...did not move once
There inside a manger
behind an inn...full up each day
Was where I saw a vision
I'll remember to my last day
Three wise men dressed in robements
A little kid, and his tin drum
Some donkeys and a camel
The baby Jesus and his mum
Dad, was in the corner
All alone hanging his head
He said "How could this have happened"
"I never left the bed"
I looked upon the baby
And I looked down upon that face
He looked at me and smiled
You could feel a state of grace
I really didn't know then
What I was here to do
But, now I know my task was
To tell everyone I knew
So, I started out on homeward
To tell old Charlie of the kid
I picked him up a present
Yep..that's exactly what I did
I guess the world must owe me
and this I 'll stand and shout
You could consider my gift to Charlie
Was the first true gift given out
Now, I sit and watch the sheep here
People come up just to see
The shepherd who started gifting
The shepherd...that is me!!!
Nov 19, 2015
Nov 19, 2015 at 11:41 PM UTC
In this trouble torn. Grief stricken world
Only music embalm my aching soul
When corruption and bribery are the order of the day
Goons and rowdies show me the real way
Even the judges succumb to dishonesty
Morals and ethics have lost their identity
The veena, the flute, the clarinet, the drums
And the guitar make a soothing effect to my ears
When there is incredible symphony
The distinction between East
And west is totally lost
Only peace and harmony forever last
Music is more intoxicating than vine
It is undoubtedly divine
There is music in the blowing wind,
Flowing stream, chirping of birds,
The hissing of snakes,
The bleating of a goat
And the beating of a heart
And the passing of blood to each human part
But understanding the synchronization is a difficult art
Jun 22, 2012
Jun 22, 2012 at 10:59 PM UTC
Through the sunlit valley they dance and sing
smiling with constant purity in the arms of spring
in the dales, new born lambs are bleating
daffodils push up to the sun, kindly beating
The buttercup pixies start to find worm holes
to pop there little seeds in threes into
then by night and day they watch the seedlings grow
underneath the shelter of a nearby toadstool
Then at six in the morning
when most folks are yawning
they gather their red hats as a team
and skip to the nearby crystal stream
Then with hats in hand scoop up the water
no more then just over a quarter
then bound back to water their seedlings
sweetly fastidious and tending with feeling
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 11:39 AM UTC
I walk a lonely alley off a quiet dead end street
at the gushing blow of where the wind and I meet
I clench my coat across my chest, turn my collar for warmth
my hat is flung off my head by the coming storms
my tie has flown and ***** like the tail of a kite
stripped right off my back, my coat puts up a fight
I tug back my shirt, but it’s bye byes across the sky
Like a black bird bleating I wish myself to fly
I extend my arms, running, like a plane off the ground
The winds undress me, more clothes dropping down
Soaring over cities, buildings and their blue seas
releasing the fabrics of my life now escaping me
I’m naked, but warmed by the layers of rays from the sun
nothing now matters than this feeling of having won
against the wind, an open sky, beyond the cast shadows below
I freely fly, with nothing on, but the air and where the wind may blow
Aug 21, 2021
Aug 21, 2021 at 7:06 AM UTC
If I'd a dime for every rhyme
That popped inside my head
Wishing plague and misery
To **** what is already dead
Then perhaps some day, should I have my way
I'd bring silence to the lambs
**** it's bleating, end it's breathing
And let me rest amongst the ******
We cursed few do mock the blessed
We dance on your very grave
If only you saw perspective
You'd know there's none to save!
Time, time and time again
You promised to make change
And now my mind won't SHUT UP
It knows that I'm to blame!
I did this, I did that
I know what wicked ends
Have forged the stage of sorrows
That gave you all there was left
With piggy eyes and snuffling pride
Your wretched filth, and life
Have tempted fate, as of late
Now scream, pig, and die...
Aug 11, 2018
Aug 11, 2018 at 11:28 PM UTC
Maybe you’re mistaken
when you think about what’s out there,
You attribute ev’ry stimulus
to winged things from books,
Mistaking accidental circumstances
for essential causes,
There isn’t really anything
that God conveys with looks.
Perhaps it is hard to face the truth:
we’re just meat bags with will,
Which slowly rot away until
the day when we’re forgotten
Needlessly dissecting
every move and every inner thought,
Attempting to discover
what makes us all so very rotten.
Take a deep breath
And hold it in
Until you feel it all
...Fading away
Slowly toward death
All of us fall
Someday we’ll feel it all
...Fading away
Through my goat mouth, it’s true,
you can hear me bleating,
Like a little lamb who’s lambier
than lamby-lambs can be,
But yes in fact it’s bike tires,
and tin cans that I’m eating,
And I feel my goat heart beating
and... I want to flee.
Jul 15, 2015
Jul 15, 2015 at 8:46 AM UTC
O secret voice of hidden love!
O bleating without wool! O wound!
O dry camellia, bitter needle!
O sea-less current, wall-less city!
O night immense with sharpened profile,
heavenly mountain, narrow valley!
O dig inside the heart, voice going,
endless silence, full-blown iris!
Let me be, hot voice of icebergs,
and do nto ask me to vanish
in weeds, where sky and flesh are fruitless.
Leave my hard ivory skull forever,
have pity on me. Stop the torture!
O I am loev, O I am nature!
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Pellets of rain pestered the cotton swagged
sky, cloudy purses grew black with scowls
coldly spelling their injustice. A chapter of
sunrays shot shamesless shards, irony perched
between chaperones; a truce maybe, rains restless
pathways of rays bleating their appeal, rooming in,
black balaclavas, rooting for blue beams,
itching bony beads of cloudy sweat, out of reach
In turn, limbs colour coated grassy spaces
tides of sun worshippers laughed out loud
their inner duets, hand in hand the sweltering
dance floor bathed them, sidling cotton clouds
Swiftly passing the sunscreen, laying back, beckoning
the sun from beneath neatly positioned cloud baubles.
Within an inch of our lives the splodges began, light
heavy, heavier, to the swell of April in full tune
Instantly the greedy green spaces groaned, ejected
sweet harmony, rolled out goodbyes, tongued stiff
breeze longing for its thirst to be quenched, and so
torrents rushed in where fools once lay
A lonely sunscreen bottle, remnant of warm
minds soaking heat, long days teasing into belief.
Yet April fooled us once more with beguiling banter,
chorused a chanting cheating lullaby of lamentation
May 5, 2013
May 5, 2013 at 1:04 PM UTC
All are not taken; there are left behind
Living Belovèds, tender looks to bring
And make the daylight still a happy thing,
And tender voices, to make soft the wind:
But if it were not so—if I could find
No love in all this world for comforting,
Nor any path but hollowly did ring
Where ‘dust to dust’ the love from life disjoin’d;
And if, before those sepulchres unmoving
I stood alone (as some forsaken lamb
Goes bleating up the moors in weary dearth)
Crying ‘Where are ye, O my loved and loving?’—
I know a voice would sound, ‘Daughter, I AM.
Can I suffice for Heaven and not for earth?’
2.3k
Glistening through shafts of sunlight, I spy the silvery dragonfly,
Hovering above the clovered knoll,
Swaying like wheat in speckled sun.
Cantering up grassy hills, away from the stream,
The bleating goats exchange existential crises,
Brushing past the whispering tulips ablaze in the sunset.
Behind me,
In the shade of oaks, in spiraling dusts,
Decaying logs half buried in the windbreak
Rekindle and animate in the orange beams.
I stand up and sip my beer, as the stars blink and stutter.
A snowy owl whooshes past, wishing for rain.
Somebody loves me.
May 4, 2010
May 4, 2010 at 5:00 PM UTC
The sun descending in the west.
The evening star does shine.
The birds are silent in their nest,
And I must seek for mine,
The moon like a flower,
In heavens high bower;
With silent delight,
Sits and smiles on the night.
Farewell green fields and happy groves,
Where flocks have took delight;
Where lambs have nibbled, silent moves
The feet of angels bright;
Unseen they pour blessing,
And joy without ceasing,
On each bud and blossom,
And each sleeping *****
They look in every thoughtless nest
Where birds are covered warm;
They visit caves of every beast,
To keep them all from harm;
If they see any weeping.
That should have been sleeping
They pour sleep on their head
And sit down by their bed.
When wolves and tygers howl for prey
They pitying stand and weep;
Seeking to drive their thirst away,
And keep them from the sheep.
But if they rush dreadful;
The angels most heedful,
Receive each mild spirit.
New worlds to inherit.
And there the lions ruddy eyes,
Shall flow with tears of gold;
And pitying the tender cries,
And walking round the fold:
Saying: wrath by his meekness
And by his health, sickness.
Is driven away,
From our immortal day.
And now beside thee, bleating lamb.
I can lie down and sleep;
Or think on him who bore thy name.
Graze after thee and weep.
For wash’d in lifes river.
My bright mane for ever.
Shall shine like the gold,
As I guard o’er the fold.
2.3k
My minister said
Two Sundays ago, that
"Christmas will always disappoint."
It was jarring,
Unnerving.
A minister said such a thing?
But wait, keep listening.
You'll see it makes sense.
You'll see it's true.
The Jews were expecting
A king to overthrow the Romans.
They expected trumpets blaring,
A white horse carrying
Their savior.
They got a helpless baby
Heralded by shepherds
And the bleating of sheep,
Born of a poor peasant woman
In a poor peasant town
In a poor peasant barn
Of a poor peasant inn.
How disappointing.
We expect the family to be together
We expect love and happiness
During the Christmas season.
We did not expect
Financial troubles
Marital problems
Stress at work
College rejections
Fighting with the kids
Arguing with the parents
The tree didn't get decorated
Until December 21
The outdoor lights
Are still in boxes.
Advent was supposed to
Prepare us.
But we're not ready yet.
Christmas will always disappoint,
But the baby will not.
Christmas is a beginning.
Christmas is hope.
There is always hope in children.
They are the future.
Hope, most of all
Is in the child of God.
It is hope.
The "good part"
Is yet to come.
We plant seeds in Christmas
With the expectation of the future.
Jesus grew up,
Like babies do.
He changed the world.
He changed the individuals.
He fed the hungry
He gave sight to the blind
He comforted the beggars
He brought justice to the Temple
He taught his followers
He drove out the demons
He loved the sinners
He reached out to the outcasts
He lived with us
He walked with us
He loved us.
And we killed him.
But that wasn't going to stop the baby
The child we placed our hope in on Christmas.
He came back from the dead
And performed many miracles.
Then he left
But promised to return.
And so we wait
With the hope given to us
By a baby
On the most disappointing Christmas of all.
But he left us a gift
Not wrapped in paper and string
But fire.
He have us the Spirit
So that we'd have guidance and comfort
And we'd never be alone.
So we can act as he did.
We can feed the hungry,
We can comfort the beggars,
We can reach out to the outcasts.
And as they wait with the hope from the baby
We can give them the same gift
So they can continue the baby's work.
Christmas is disappointing
But the baby is not.
The baby is Jesus
And he gives us hope.
Of life and life beyond death
And of love for all people.
For then, for now,
And forever.
Dec 24, 2013
Dec 24, 2013 at 10:14 AM UTC
I want to go back to my past
When tame pigeons of joy nested on my eaves
And I could hear their crooning
With the sweetness of love outpouring
I want to go back to my past
When innocent instincts ruled my heart
And I ran after every call from the woods or bush
Mesmerized by the whistles of the oriole and the thrush
I want to go back to my past
When every rainbow and every peacock feather
Ignited curiosity in me as a child
And colored my imagination wild
I want to go back to my past
When, with friends, I sat in the mango grove
And savored the ripe juicy mangoes
Careful not to let the pulp drip down our mouths
I want to go back to my past
When we strolled along the sandy strands
Watching the wild waves fray
And cooled by the kiss of spray
I want to go back to my past
When we had watched at night
A hundred fireflies dancing around the neem
Wondering if they were stars fallen from heaven’s seam
I want to go back to my past
When, like breeze, we ran over the meadows
Looking for the bleating lamb
Singing in chorus, ‘Mary had a little lamb’
I want to go back to my past,
When life appears a trying test
With ‘the slings and arrows of an outrageous fortune’
And as and when I feel so desperately alone!
Aug 21, 2016
Aug 21, 2016 at 8:23 AM UTC