Even As the Archer Loves the Arrow That Flies, So Too He loves the Bow That Remains Constant in His Hands. — Nigerian Proverb

And she wore the sounds

She often hoped to hear

When the desert slept

And the moon rested upon her pillow

All colour, all sound

                   

Predictable pleasures

Get lost in the rhyme

In the hope of a name

That ends the dream

Like a couplet

And she wore the sounds

Like a hat, like what’s remains

Of an embrace

When love had left her pillow

And gave its space to the silence

Of a cold moon

She will not get old

For she was never of that youth

When one wears a sonnet

En guise of a stolen kiss

To give a rhyme to the silent

Desert

November 1, 2018

© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2018