Saturday, September 15, 2007

Her Pulse

She sat on the cold wooden bench
Under the mist of rain
She sat
She looked up at the height of his Pride
She looked and grasped
Grasped the night
It is to be the end of the day
No sun
No light
No warmth.
There was nothing to be done
Night was there.

It was at the end of the day
When she finally climbed all the way up
Up to the top of his coldness
Up to the end of the day
She hung her pulse to
the coldness of the night.

*Belly Dancers, Sacramento Art Walk, September 2007

1 comment:

Nazy said...

A beautiful poem Tameshk Jan. How sweet and deep. I started leaving a comment about it, and then i wanted to read it again, so I went back. Reading the words and making out the sketch, it may sound like a sad sketch, but it made me smile! I think it's because by now I know you and know just how joyful you are, and I join your game! Be good azizam and update please about that ticket!