Breezes are coming from the north.
Slow and steady, they go forth.
They gently blow on the fields of corn,
And bounce toward the pink flowers nearby
To gently push the bees that fly.
It was so quiet, that you might hear the angels.
Maybe the sounds of the grasses beside the well,
The grasses on which the breezes fell,
Are really the angels' song.
A song that the breezes had danced to for long.
The sounds of the swaying leaves join the music.
It's the hymn of the earth and the sky, soft and harmonic.
Though simple and quiet, it's the song that he seeks.
Nothing in life is as precious as this.
All forms and colors are one in the song of peace.
Amidst the noise of automatic rifles and explosions,
The song of peace is beyond recognition.
It comes back to some in the form of delusions.
Maybe it's gone, leaving them cold and grim,
But it sings in a soldier's dream.
(March 15, 2012)
YOU ARE READING
Poetry Collection
PoetryA collection of the poems I wrote and the dates when I wrote them.
