… And they spoke of their dreams
In words that were rarely theirs
Cold as an evening on the Silk Road
Wrapped in the echo of a lonesome tune
Played on a string instrument smelling of
Goat skin
And their dreams were known to all
Who watched the clouds and saw a face
To which they gave a name
The same name
That reminded them
Of loving
Now simply a dream they all exhaled
Like a varietal wine breathes morning air
In a pretentious decanter
Their faces had earned the imperfections
Of the passage
Upon lands, forgotten promises and tender lips
Passage of time, belonging to faces without names
With ample lips announcing the echo dreams make in
us
Hollow, dark and damp
Like the memory of a name
Played on a string instrument
Smelling of goat skin
Somewhere on the road
Where dreams sleep at night
Under the shadow of a full moon
October 7, 2014
© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2014
No comments:
Post a Comment