"vacated" poems
*Apni Dhun Mein Rehta Hoon
Main Bhi Tere Jaisa Hoon*
**Roaming within my own tunes I am
O’ just like you I am**
*Oh Pichhlee Rut Ke Saathi
Abke Baras Main Tanha Hoon*
**O’ friend of the past season
This year completely alone I am**
*Teri Gali Mein Sara Din
Dukh Ke Kankar Chunta Hoon*
**Whole day, in your street
Collecting the pebbles of sorrows I am**
*Mera Diya Jalaye Kuan
Main Tera Khali Kamra Hoon*
**Who will set my lamp alight?
O’ your vacated room I am**
*Apni Leher Hai Apna Rog
Dariya Hoon Aur Pyasaa Hoon*
**My own wave is the malady
Ocean I am and yet so thirsty I am**
*Aati Rut Mujhe Royegi
Jaati Rut Ka Jhonka Hoon*
**Coming season will weep for me
O’ breeze of the ending season I am**
— Translated by Jamil Hussain, Poet Nasir Kazmi, Sung by Ghulam Ali
Oct 26, 2016
Oct 26, 2016 at 8:23 AM UTC
There, she lies on the altar
Almost held the sun she—
almost in her hands
Opened up, a rose-bud chaste
petal by petal by blood, with
a sting, so sweet and sweet, as
sunset reborn a bee; she was
gold and silver and black at once.
Almost held the sun she—
and no wax wings used
Oh, Icarus, love you did a wild sky,
— yourself a light-licked doom
as your father cried,
Your father cried for you.
A veil as simple sour starlight she wore
as wings of wasps as beetles she giggled
Icarus, flew that you
—and with tongue-tied elation too
Icarus,
she rambled on for hours long.
A letter she held in spring kissed hands
—I will wed you to the sun, her father had sworn.
The sun—and a sun he was,
child of the sea, some sword in honey
dipped; now her awaiting.
And blushed she did herself a dawn
The altar, on the altar.
Almost held the sun she—
Swallowed a mayhem for the father's sin.
Icarus, tell me of the plummet.
Tell me of the greens you saw,
of blues, of whites, of the whirling world—
Men go around around her
their soles all ready
to crush lost skulls an empty moor.
Twirling,
the dust, like may have her hair
before the wedding day
Strands and strands, gently styled—
Spears, swords, rubbed to mirrors,
to lakes lifeless
Armors and ships laden with life, with
sails, the fluttering doves;
As the winds dance once more—
as harbors vacated, as waves torn apart for the horde, as move they on— on too the sun— as
She still lies.
Icarus, Icarus, was it the ocean
that cupped its palms, or did the soil cave in
as down into dark's slick throat you slid?
Surely, was soft, the sea's well-loved mouth,
Surely soft or true
She lies on the altar
a trinket glossy on a hoof, a ****** in the bell,
how does one say—
the valley of lilies, she grew it inside.
Spilled out on the stones, they are fed
to the flies.
Almost held the sun she—
Icarus, must you know
You did not sleep a wretched silence
within the womb of war.
No crescent blades you drank down a leaking throat—
She lies on the altar, vanquished for moon
— for metal upon bone
for blood, for blood, for blood.
A father’s green promise—
Seasoned to rust before the king
Icarus, on the altar she lies—
a ripened land far, far away lures her king
to another rosy worship.
Icarus, Icarus,
on the altar
Aug 3, 2021
Aug 3, 2021 at 7:45 AM UTC
At birth, we boarded the train of life and met our parents, and we believed that they would always travel by our side. However, at some station, our parents would step down from the train, leaving us on life's journey alone.
As time goes by, some significant people will board the train: siblings, other children, friends, and even the love of our life.
Many will step down and leave a permanent vacuum. Others will go so unnoticed that we won't realize that they vacated their seats! This train ride has been a mixture of joy, sorrow, fantasy, expectations, hellos, goodbyes, and farewells.
A successful journey consists of having a good relationship with all passengers, requiring that we give the best of ourselves. The mystery that prevails is that we do not know at which station we ourselves will step down. Thus, we must try to travel along the track of life in the best possible way -- loving, forgiving, giving, and sharing.
When the time comes for us to step down and leave our seat empty -- we should leave behind beautiful memories for those who continue to travel on the train of life.
Let’s remember to thank our Creator for giving us life to participate in this journey.
I close by thanking you for being one of the passengers on my train!
Sep 18, 2017
Sep 18, 2017 at 9:33 PM UTC
We, the rescued,
From whose hollow bones death had begun to whittle his flutes,
And on whose sinews he had already stroked his bow-
Our bodies continue to lament
With their mutilated music.
We, the rescued,
The nooses wound for our necks still dangle
Before us in the blue air-
Hourglasses still fill with our dripping blood.
We, the rescued,
The worms of fear still feed on us.
Our constellation is buried in dust.
We, the rescued,
Beg you:
Show us your sun, but gradually.
Lead us from star to star, step by step.
Be gentle when you teach us to live again.
Lest the song of a bird,
Or a pail being filled at the well,
Let our badly sealed pain burst forth again
And carry us away -
We beg you:
Do not show us an angry dog, not yet -
It could be, it could be
That we will dissolve into dust
Dissolve into dust before your eyes.
For what binds our fabric together?
We whose breath vacated us,
Whose soul fled to Him out of that midnight
Long before our bodies were rescued
Into the arc of the moment.
We, the rescued,
We press your hand
We look into your eye-
But all that binds us together now is leave-taking.
The leave-taking in the dust
Binds us together with you
Nelly Sachs
Aug 31, 2016
Aug 31, 2016 at 5:26 AM UTC
Dostoyevsky said, “your worst sin is that you have destroyed and betrayed yourself for nothing.”
I've felt rage seething in my chest for as long as I can remember. I've felt as his talons ripped open my sternum, digging for a place to call home. this rage has nestled deep into my ribcage, devouring my will to survive while carelessly residing within my nightmares.
I've surrendered to this forsaken depression fury has vacated deep in the confines of my irises - despite witnessing myself across grey-tinted glasses; a smoldering storm rippling miasma throughout my body, manipulating my hands into a devout pyromaniac; suffocating every chance to heal.
I've known nothing but bitterness congesting my heart. My dreams were burdened dreadfully with the stench of wrath. it mutilated my arms; burrowing into capillaries, and asphyxiating my habit to vanish.
This incessant sin I've endured has brought me to my knees, existing only to ***** out my ability to be a mortal in an unforgiving universe. I am not a cosmic metaphor, the iron residing underneath my skin has become impenetrable.
I am adorned with stillness while this betrayal has bloomed into a supernova. the things in which I lack have ignited into an endlessly violent explosion -
Atomizing my bones, swirling stardust into a forlorn emptiness.
A world that was held by the unfaltering resistance I persevered against, it has ravaged my memories, my moribund existence trembled; shivering from the growl of the recoil - the remnants of creation kissed abysmal lips within the faraway distance of a boundless abyss, raining tears for the last time as the destruction leaves a life void of meaning.
The last words ever heard in this universe spoke softly as if to lull the existential bereft into a long hiatus -
"This was all for nothing, just as destitute as this vacant nothingness, human life is ill-fated to be star-crossed and powerless."
Sep 25, 2024
Sep 25, 2024 at 6:51 PM UTC
I knocked on society’s door,
Hollow footsteps through the crevice of civility,
A ***** welcome mat with a broken doorbell;
No visitors wanted who were not invited,
And understanding was buried under the porch.
In Law’s front yard,
picketed with ire and arrayed with disorder,
Olive branches strewn across dry grass,
lay an empty briefcase marked in leather.
Gavel and irony betrayed her whimsically.
Garden beds in front of Understanding;
Plundered of roses and wanton petals.
Bland stems wilted amongst the weeds.
Relinquished of entitlement; water led
Towards apathy and entropy instead.
A house of Perhaps: vacant,
Open front door to empty rooms.
Leased to opportunity but vacated in days,
Renovations procrastinated; mocked by
The neighbor of dismay and wry.
Ignorance paved a new driveway,
The unanimous watch of Lively Cul-de-sac;
Gated community with hopes of manicured
Lawns and pools. Procreated in the minds
Of not wild men, but surveyors.
Mar 6, 2012
Mar 6, 2012 at 4:17 AM UTC
I have met Masters and OGs
within joint commissions.
While my dear, Granddaddy Purple’s
spending my tuition.
But, it was merely a Blue Dream
at blunt ceremonies.
While Hindus and Afghans breed in
holy matrimonies.
Look at all of Mary Jane's strains,
I want to be like them;
stuck pondering my bud's embrace
and all’the broken stems.
Reuniting the Skywalker's
was quite like the Death Star
far out, in space and burns fast like
Sour Diesel’s quick car.
I rode the Pineapple Express,
then I hit the Train Wreck.
Lights out! The conductor demands
that we have our pipes checked.
Look at all of Mary Jane's strains,
I have plenty of them,
still pondering my bud's embrace
and all’the broken stems.
My bud's came less often and I
became less credible.
I told my bud Bubba that we
should switch to edibles.
“But, you can't eat these sweets unless
the treat's gradual high
stops your bud’s from disappearing.
You need me to get by!”
Where are all of Mary Jane's strains?
I need some more like them;
losing the embrace of my bud’s
and all’the broken stems.
All my buds have vacated me.
All that's left is Reggie
and Mid, who aren't like my kind buds;
they’re leaving me edgy.
I’m hanging with Mid and Reggie
hoping they'll come around
But now, even they’re gone, and I
have lost what was once found.
The strains of Mary Jane are gone.
I can't live without them!
I dream to see my bud's once more
and all’the broken stems.
Jun 22, 2014
Jun 22, 2014 at 11:31 PM UTC
The thing that kills me most
Shattering me from within
Is not the absence of your shield
But this abrupt awareness
Of the awful emptiness
That has now settled into the place
Which hope has just vacated.
I ride out into the colloseum
Battle-clad in armour
Club swinging, sword at the ready
A quiver full of arrows
Just to defend you.
But I will fall at the very first shot
This armour I call my skin
Will be the death of me.
Because the truth is
You were my armour
You were my shield
And then I realised you never were.
Sep 19, 2014
Sep 19, 2014 at 2:01 PM UTC
Slumbering on and off
I must have dozed into a side street
My memory on a go slow
Having vacated the premises
Beads rolled and filled the gaps
Settling into the spaces in my head
Overflowing into folds of the pillow
Their circular bodies probing my cheeks
Pulling faces at me in disturbance
The light switch to my brain remained off
The beads multiplied, the pillow
Like a giant bead bean bag
Impacted its air bag mode
Wham....I was awake
Not knowing for a moment quite what day it was
Sep 2, 2012
Sep 2, 2012 at 6:06 AM UTC
cast out
chucked away
deep-sixed
discarded
discharged
disposed of
expelled
flung aside
thrown down
jettisoned
deserted
jilted
vacated
left in abdication
aggravated
outcast
rejected
eliminated
forgotten
given up
godforsaken
Oct 4, 2011
Oct 4, 2011 at 11:02 AM UTC
oh what sustains this mind
a mind that teeters
on the edge of a spiral vertigo
that sways and rocks
in an unease of palpitations
attempting to escape
from the brutal insensitivity
of the granite faces that occupy the streets
a mind of hallucinated perceptions
with a constant stream of imagery
that finds a difficulty in the self negotiation,
the articulation of its inner geography
where a frightened availability of disturbance
in the vocabulary of its chemical graffiti
leaves speech vacated on the tongue
where eyes are pushed to see
a discord of sympathies for different dimensions
that has one disassociated, cut off from the immediate
living in an inner dialogue
of rebellious and unconventional preoccupations
a self alienation that heightens
the poetic colouring of the imagination
causes a ************ of the mind
that makes me cripplingly aware
of the abyss at the heart of my inner disquiet
makes my toes hover on the jagged edge of the world
yet I jump choosing discovery over societal dictum
to do rather than be
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 9:00 PM UTC
London bridge is down
In code a lament
A royal queen pin now freed
A throne vacated
Hearts and minds soar at half staff
In gods name let all rest in peace
In servant to many generations
To many peoples of the world
A new regnant era is heralded
Sep 12, 2022
Sep 12, 2022 at 10:50 AM UTC
I gave you my summer;
Sea salt stung my aching knuckles
And the salt from your skin burned the cracks in my lips.
I gave you tea candle nights;
Firefly and Arnold Palmer
Topped with bug spray and dusted with chlorine
Rolling over and over until I felt sick
With your taste in my mouth and your heartbeat in my head.
I gave you my will to breathe that night
And with every shot I took, you took more.
I gave you the days of cold breezes and warm afternoons;
When the sunset burned like fire
And I needed your hands to keep mine warm.
Pumpkin on my tongue
Lattes and ale
And a long drive to the apple trees
Where we got lost for hours, you and me.
I gave you my shoulder and my shade
I gave you my light heart and carried your weight.
I gave you the light I needed to see
And for those next few months, I was blind.
I gave you my stumbling legs and frozen fingers
Wrapped in a down blanket on a queen size bed
I gave you every inch of my skin and touched every inch of yours,
All alone here on the floor
but still, I was empty.
With no blood in my veins
and no heart in my chest.
Vacated and lost
A beggar girl whose lost eyes you despise
Whose heart is wilting beside yours
Who calls for nameless people in the middle of the night,
While you lay beside her losing sleep.
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 11:40 PM UTC
. (Mythology Re-Imagined As Fairy-Tale & Deconstructed) .
No one recalls when he arrived.
He was already there, in the corners of high rooms.
Carried in on wind or instinct.
Too composed to belong, too still to be ignored.
He wasn't from the sea, though he stared at it often.
Stared like a man who missed something he never touched.
He lived above things—above feeling, above endings.
He wore distance like other men wear charm.
And she—well.
She wasn’t where she was supposed to be.
---
They said she’d been sealed beneath water before time had a name.
Not drowned. Not sleeping.
Just paused.
A beauty left half-sketched.
A song trapped on the bridge, never reaching the chorus.
She existed in the almost.
The kind of presence that ruins men who believe in silence.
No one put her there.
But something had.
Something old and silver-lipped, a clockmaker with no face.
---
When he found out, he didn’t shout.
Didn’t storm.
Storms are for men who want to be heard.
He simply started unmaking himself.
Small things, at first:
Giving away secrets he never told.
Letting starlight fall from his shoulders like ash.
Standing in rooms long enough for people to forget he was tall.
Eventually, he gave away the last thing he had—
the part of him that never wanted anything.
And that was enough.
---
She came back like foam curling over marble.
Not as a lover. Not as a reward.
As weather.
She passed him by.
Looked at the space he’d vacated inside himself
and nodded, as if to say: “Yes. That will do.”
---
After that, things changed.
She walked through the city like someone who could end it.
Touched doorframes and left them trembling.
Spoke only when the sentence would shatter something.
He, on the other hand,
was seen less and less.
Not gone—just thinned out, like smoke after a gunshot.
---
Some say he became the silence in her laugh.
Others claim he left, unfinished, like a poem crumpled in a lover’s pocket.
No one’s sure.
But if you ask the sea just right—
after midnight, after mirrors—
you’ll hear it whisper:
“He let go of the sky, so she could walk through it.”
{fin}
Jun 25, 2025
Jun 25, 2025 at 12:02 AM UTC
I heard that David Kavanagh
(So say reliable sources)
Has vacated Hello Poetry
To follow other courses…
He stopped for awhile to graze here
On Hello Poetry
Riding off on Irish horses
Pausing just to speak to trees
Mar 2, 2016
Mar 2, 2016 at 11:25 AM UTC
I see the trees trying to grow large enough to leave this place.
They were:
Hand-Holding-Plants
makinglovetopeace
We are:
as if statues building one another
large enough
to destroy themselves
We are the wicked,
making love
to our sickness.
and when wicked
is the eye of the beholder
we build a great and terrible machine around us which we call Us.
It is the shaking scared skeleton of a forest rotting away from a place which beauty built in it's sleep.
the motion picture of the horror sequence of our mind.
The world bleeds out the fire of man
Born inside a seraphim skin
we abuse and build death
around our bodies
in connected piles on the ground.
waiting calmly.
coming in for the ****
an anthill
vacated and caved in
until everything is finally
quiet and still.
you can not grow skin
on a mausoleum
and wait for it to breathe.
while you sit
and you wait
your own skin
will leave.
when nothing is left to die,
in that time;
no one is left to grieve.
May 6, 2017
May 6, 2017 at 9:32 PM UTC
Drained in stereo
Eyes toward vacated heavens
Deadlight escaping death
To sit and wait upon the edge of the great nothing
Arms wrapped and fingers entwined
Watching the sun dive down
Dimming into obsidian
Mountains erode to sand
And water overtakes
Stormy oceans of desolation
"We are a glimpse in the eye of cosmic **decay
Dictating** the future words of voices unspoken"
***...I've wished the world away
Too many times to count...***
I've watched the last days
And the tides change their ways
And the skies cease to be
I've seen the world die
But once in my life
And once was just enough
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 7:38 AM UTC
It might be the pungent steam from a ***
steeping herbs meant to bend its sippers'
minds to potent effect, or an unanticipated
digestive reckoning from that mawkishly flavored
brand of store-bought paste they pass as butter.
However the dough arises, their collective
recollection of storied events, lengthwise sliced
and ritually rehearsed, hops facilely on the ****
of a bucking and overtly nonsensical wind.
Tea parties with slippery perspectives
have been shown quite clinically to induce
heightened sensitivity in participants,
so it's prudent to set about tidying the facts:
The hatter, it's become clear, shifted one place
too many and disappeared with a trace -- leaving
behind his hat to nobody's great advantage.
Lacking a wearer, the headgear's reputation for
producing madness has rapidly diminished.
The march hare pulls off his change in a very
separate and seasonal way: the bunny's
bottom half somersaults its top to occupy
both his spot and the hatter's vacated seat.
The dormouse upon its latest arousal
is re-visioned to be small, but not much mouse
at all. He's plush with the long-in-the-ear habit
of a pink stuffed rabbit, which the crusading hare
furiously declares is most curious, casting
doubt on the vermin's commitment to "no room."
Alice remains foremost in tact and is given
a bonus of two spare feet complete with slackened
bootstraps. She keeps them and her other luxury
items well-sheltered behind a stout table leg.
The absentee hatter doesn't dare shame her
with a radio-show call-in decrying
the waste. She's generously agreed to
cover the medical expenses from his firm flop.
May 27, 2010
May 27, 2010 at 2:54 PM UTC
A humanitarian crisis,
A situation catastrophic,
A sprawl of ramshackle buildings,
Now vacated,
As masses continue to flee,
What’s left of their battered motherland,
With operation Murambatsvina at its apex,
I left where my house used to stand,
Now a rubble of broken bricks and choking dust,
Just with the dress I was wearing,
And bitter memories of a faceless monster,
The prophet of doom,
An epitome of conflicted personality,
The hardhearted devil personified,
I fled on foot,
Ran-walked, ran-walked,
Swam across the Limpopo River,
Ran-walked across Kruger National Park,
Met the police,
Abused, ***** and sent back,
Swam back,
Ran-walked, ran-walked,
This is the Zimbabwean fate,
Our heart-wrenching fate,
Exodus after exodus.
May 18, 2015
May 18, 2015 at 5:51 AM UTC
Rebellion smells like apples, cinnamon
and *****
On a gravel road swallowed whole by
a surrounding forest of lush greens
we stood in opposition, revolution
firearms nestled in our hands.
We rebelled against alcoholism.
Drunk, amber soldiers stumbled across
the uneven surface of the log they vacated.
Our bullets shattered them one by one.
The rifle’s kick back slammed against me.
The cracking echo of each gunshot
filled the hollow chiseled in my chest
and tenderized my brain.
Shards of hard cider and hard liquor
spattered the dirt; the bright red
of the Angry Orchards’ labeling
bleeding war into the earth and grit.
We searched for survivors.
The air was perfumed with Cinnamon Apple
and *****
The soft spice of autumn and harvest
wafted gently up my nose
followed by the sharp scent of
disinfectant, hospitals, stainless steel.
It was the smell of ***** my default.
Nudging a dusty bottle neck with my toe
I couldn’t help but think back to
the angry, open-mouthed kisses
I once shared with my bottles
early in the morning until late at night.
A furious thirst surged through me.
I still wanted a drink.
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 12:18 PM UTC
I want to plant foothills by the stairs. Broad basins on the chipping white paint. Flaking from the ceiling in droplets. Watering the drought of steps of vacated conversation, inner tongues flicking pleasured thoughts. Touches sprawled on black sand paper are compressed by our synced footsteps. Intertwined by laced fingers and hungry thrusts. Backpedaling to the peak, it causes cautious urches. The snowy ridges still chipping off, lips sealed together puzzled by whom will break first. Or if the sprouting seed inside is blooming in the other……….I still can’t figure out when you walk down the steps.
Mar 26, 2013
Mar 26, 2013 at 11:18 AM UTC
A king will be a king,
His queen must be a shill.
Dare she were to disobey,
Stick her head in a guillotine.
The modern world seems so classical,
An era of error on repeat,
As if a broken record,
So to speak.
Her hair a factory of honey,
Glistening eyes of a little girl,
A figure of motherhood in need of a mother.
Why, she was just a baby,
Right from wrong?
She could not tell,
He wanted her,
He got her,
And they all danced to his tune.
She worshipped her king,
Loving him tenderly as —
The king worshipped himself,
Taking care of business.
An entire world heard him speak,
Yet never saw her.
Enslaved in a kingdom of grace,
While she was up,
He was down.
His majesty ruled rocking,
Molded his maiden,
And left her but to wonder,
Simply of his whereabouts.
The throne,
Lonely without her king.
A flawless woman feared flawed,
Merely a mirror of his honor.
A man of many mistresses,
Ravaged for ************
Who was she?
She could not say,
A lover or a friend?
A mother or a gem?
In time past due,
She could not stay.
The goddess vacated his palace,
Long left to showcase his gold,
But even those walls reek of plastic,
Hindered by a painting left unseen.
They did not know him,
Neither did he,
Only did she,
And she is forced to eat,
At the dime of his memory.
Jan 14, 2021
Jan 14, 2021 at 4:41 AM UTC
Standing in the tunnel
at Eighth and Pine station,
I survey westbound commuters
waiting across the tracks -
standing arms akimbo
or leaning on marble walls.
A well-suited young man paces the platform -
cell phone pressed to his cheek.
[Passengers stand clear of the
edge of the platform at all times]
Rushing in from the east,
a gleaming white chariot
arrives - pauses - resumes
leaving the far platform vacated
as if by alien abduction
From the left a blazing light
pierces the tunnel
and the Shiloh – Scott eastbound
halts and snaps open its doors.
crossing the threshold.,
I claim a seat by the aisle.
[Please stand clear! Doors are closing]
With eyes half shut I scan the crowd:
uniformed workers wearing ID's,
a toddler’s arms and legs
dangling off his mother's lap,
An elderly couple talking softly.
The soft clatter of wheels
and the gentle side-to-side sway
rocks us like a cradle -
memories of the long day
melting into thoughts of home.
[Fairview Heights Station.
Doors open to my right]
The lady with the toddler steps off.
A trio of teenage girls
fresh from the mall
seek and find empty seats -
filling the rear of the car
with the music of their chatter.
Streetlamps scatter shadows
over parking lots.
The unseen country side
slips by under cover of darkness.
Headlights gleam like jewels
waiting for crossing gates to lift
[Next stop Belleville Station
Doors open to my left]
I clutch my lap top,
work my way to the door
and wait for the train’s full stop
Stepping out into the frost filled air
I pause to watch the sleak white chariot
vanish on the eastern horizon.
September, 2006
Nov 13, 2015
Nov 13, 2015 at 6:29 AM UTC
In the villa in Sharja,
A banyan tree stood, stuck to the wall of the building.
Mind throbbed as soon as it caught sight of it,
Touched it to my forehead in reverence,
Remembered my father who understood trees.
In the book she has kept closed,
It should be possible to still see
The memory veins of a leaf-
Plucked after touching its soul and seeking permission.
‘It is a sign of prosperity,
It cleanses the atmosphere’, Mary too said.
New tenants came in the room vacated by Priyan and Anjana
Jaya aunty and her husband said that they wore skull caps
Narayanan, wearing sacred thread and sandalwood paste on his forehead,
Anthony with rosary and sacred amulet
After them,
Youngsters of this type were not seen so nearby
One night, when I went out of my way to touch that tree,
I heard speech of a rhythmic nature
From the room of those who wore caps
It passed through my mind, ‘these are times when words become music.’
It was a Friday.
While watering Basil plants,
Saw the branches of the banyan on the ground.
Its leaves, like heart shattered..
Whitish veins drained of blood
my eyes hurt
As I ran to it,
Saw the tree,
Looking like a worshipper whose hands were cut
While crying, beseeching the heavens , arms outstretched.
Father,
You used to say that there were many types of trees
Which tree is used to make crosses to crucify humans, Father?
Oct 8, 2013
Oct 8, 2013 at 9:54 AM UTC