come and travel with me

come and travel with me
while i propose the words to fly
over their back, we reach to the sky
a bit of sky in Kasheer,
a bit of river from my hamlet
composing a silent symphony.

when nights will keep the sun out
the warmth of my syllables will
play with your ink blue fingers.

often you will fall on my head
like the snow, soundless and pregnant
or like the perfect metaphor
of this age of growing
to that age of your memory
and my graying.

no, this is no dream or wish
this is a modest game between two hearts
of things more simplified and rare.

an art of invisible dancing
which always move forward
i will continue this jaunt of fantasy
between the smiles less shown
and stars we often talked about
now come and travel with me….

her desert...

it must float like a story
untold, unsorted
or like a memory of a river
rooted and blotted.

of selective theory and
matters of heart or
un-distilled emotions
of victim's soar.

entangled between the odds
a life of smiles and madness
must grow. A mute
symphony of peasants
is a sermon to the hills.
but who will welcome back
the evening, tired and torn
after a day inside the sun.

the wife or the daughter,
who gather tea and breeze
looks for a window
to scale the return of dawn
but these all are metaphors
of a protected memory
of a man from hills
and her desert.