multilayered red-yellow rays,
as I stretch out in the bed languidly
with a long yawn
wide as if devouring time and space.
I am fixed on earth
a pole before the mirror, I am
and discolored reflections look ghosts
distorted faces, trees and flowers
awaken and I get baffled.
pomegranate, peach, walnut
guava, lemon and orange
melt into sounds,
and it is fresh with sonorous tunes
but I fail to understand,
perhaps I don’t wish to enjoy.
in routine lethargy when I felt
captivated by plants gray and sad,
withered years back
treasuring pensive echoes;
of water burnt in utter thirst.
ineffectual vowels scratching tongues
of plants that did not follow sighs,
but felt spongy waft mournful touches
with sadly melodic sounds in solitude,
instigating to learn art of love.
these voices call tenderly
so mild whispers I hear.
I am aware of steps as plants dance
hear voiceless murmurs
as breeze alerts each leaf and flower,
on the onset of dry autumn
and chilly miasma.
with smiles I go around
to hum a tune and all listen.
perhaps it is a myth
that plants follow I imagine,
and as a habit I can’t sleep
even as sun rays touch crumpled bed.
Plants knock at the windows
with little pieces of soft smiles
fill the entire space
with mystic perfumes,
and begin to say prayers
for my long life, I doubt.
with the morning sun
lustre and freshness
and tell, God is here
waiting for a gazette notification.
Dawn Yellow Sun -- Roos Schuring