SPIRIT OF INK - Wardha Jawdat (superbooks4u TXT) 📗

Index

Page....Content

6. Immortal Desire

8. Red,My Shrine

10. Compassion:An art lost.

12. Vapors on paper

IMMORTAL DESIRE

O Death so dark,O death so bleak,

Come upon me gentle

Come upon me in sleep

I wish to have bid the world adieu

As a queen might her court, view

One last time; one last stage,

One final bow, before all else is curtailed

O death be gentle,

O death be grace;

Let me look a goddess etched in porcelain

Let me be attired in frocks of lace.

O death come upon me

Like a dream,

Stealthy in inception


And romantic in tears;

Let people weep for me in eve's

And mourn for me long and deep;

O death be romantic,

O death be reprieve,

O death make me a Desire,

An immortal Eve.

RED,MY SHRINE.

I see red every day,
coloring the sky at dusk,
coloring the pavement at dawn,
coloring clothes in streets,
and faces in the morgue.

RED
is no longer a color,
but a verdict of the times,
and the verdict rings: Guilty!!!
and the guilt screams in shrines.

RED
are your hands,
red, your mind,
red, my morrow
as it claims me and mine.

RED
is the new plague,
red, the new hate,
red, the new racism,
red ,your country and mine.

COMPASSION:AN ART LOST

Timid as a gazelle,
Springing, nervously
Through a vicious jungle,
He pauses every now and then,
Casting feverish glances ,
Over his scrawny shoulders,
He's never seen "Humanity"
though submerged in "humans" every day;
He's never known "normalacy"
Though he was born beautiful in every way
He's a child of Man,
Yet, a bastard, to mankind
He's a saint amongst the humans,
Yet an outlaw among his race,
Because God forgot
To birth him, with riches and grace.
He's one of us
Yet, not "of" us;
He dwells in shadows,
In silences,
In slums and disgrace.


He is poverty's protege,
And snobbery's stooge,
He is to be ignored,
Even in death,to be debased,
His lifeless body carted away, before
The rich come out for their strolls,
And incinerated, or donated
To the schools
Where the rich go,
To be taught: "compassion"
And potions ,to heal the human form,
Forgetting, forever,
That true blood is drawn
When a hole is rent,
In humanity's soul.

Vapors On Paper

The romance is like one fabled,
I watch, entranced;my hand grips the pen,
But the romance that bursts forth
Cannot be reined;
This passion between ink and paper,
The lure which draws the spirit of
My pen into a waltz, defines
The very art of creation.

I have no power ,almost no soul,
In the breath which births this art;
My pen is an elegant ballerina,
And the Canvas her loyal stage
Upon which she dances her charm,
And her pirouettes etch the
Most breathtaking promises
Of undying fidelity upon his heart.

I long for the aroma of this
Same romance,for some canvas
To showcase my beauty,


For some stage to be the steady earth
Under the whimsical feet of my spirit,
As it takes flight upon imagination's wing
And dances out a rhapsody of pure ,sheer
Ecstacy.

Publication Date: 08-25-2010

All Rights Reserved

Dedication:
Faisal, For being a dear, dear, friend.