On the edge
As high as the eagle soars
Alone, over red rocks
Shaped as a name
On that edge
All is rock and harmony
As I whisper
A name, shaped as memory
It was under a pine tree
On a mountain far away
That I learned that whisper
When on the edge, left alone
And time, unkind and hurried
Forgot me there, for a long while
To wonder and to recall
What had not happened, but could have
… And so one grows, feeble or tall
When the gorges are deep
And the edge is so dry
That eagles fall
Alone
Without a name
October 30, 2014
© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2014
No comments:
Post a Comment