Myself, A Weak Soul

Oh Morning Breeze

Myself a weak soul, I plant my tender vines, corn, and apples with a ready hand in all weather. I do not shame to handle the plow at times, nor to hasten the slow oxen around the bend gently. Whatever good fruits any season has for me, their firstlings are placed before her that rules these fields, whose aura whispers in the wind, even if her hand never touches these delicacies I grow, hand pick, and peel just for her.

Behold this vine that was found into a wild tree, whose untamed strength had swollen into their own forest. I have pruned the plant and it became temperate in its vast expanse of glittering leaves. Tied as they ought to, into full clean clusters, to repay the hand that wisely wounded it.

Let there be a crown woven from the corn ears of this crop, to hand before the door of thy temple, as you receive offerings from this field, more than 50 times a day easily. Without thy sweet breath, oh familiar of my soul, life has lost its hues and colours. A dove with a single note, I see, and do see, nothing but thy name forever. The mirror of my heart is now darkened as the storm clouds, and till our meeting in the next sphere my heart conceives of no happiness, simply duty in this world. Before the winter of sorrow came without pause, I had spring in the garden of my heart.

It is not blood, oh bearer, that appears

To give your cheek it’s reddish glow

It is thy broken heart whose sanguine tears

Mixed with life’s pain and fate overflow

Killed by heartache standing before the gates

Bashir sitting still with adoration waits

All the while printing kisses on her closed door

Crowning with flowers the threshold and the floor