r h y m e s
r h y m e s
And it was at that age ... Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don't know how or when,
no, they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.
_______________ A Brave and Startling TruthAutobiography in Five Short Chapters
Behind the Veil, or something catchy like that
In the Lucidity of a Solemn Silence
Ramadhan in the Bitter Sweetness
Response to the Hebron Massacre
To Contemplate His Night Time Skies
We Will Emerge from the Smoldering Ashes
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