rooted in what time cannot say, dancing in ancient magic to bells of the desert when the sun-brushed earth emerges to reflections of blue eternity and hands summon the wind of doves through the sky curtain to dissolve into spirit’s sea





he is not a poet
but the quiet of his embrace
brings the darkness to light
and morning pathways smile

he is not a poet
but he plays the beat
of a desert heart at sunset
and wounded birds learn to fly

he is not a poet
but he observes the river
with tenderness unspoken
and reverie waters flow in bliss

he is not a poet
but he holds a flower
as if he holds the world
and whispers bloom to empty streets

he is not a poet

his whole life is the poem of peace


in the desert light, in the nearness of an angel. to bloom before sky’s eyes is to touch an ether of eternity. and how soft the burning hues of sun when the wind holds incense of a reverie sung by bedouins? most ancient is the shrine of tenderness.



“Why is it,” he said, one time, at the subway entrance, “I feel I’ve known you so many years?”
“Because I like you,” she said, “and I don’t want anything from you.”
Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451


whispering every syllable of wind’s name on the porch, observing the city that reflects tides of emergent stars… morning drums of a mountain river still coincide with the heartbeat, misted darkness of the cave still shapes inner silence with ancient sighs. suddenly, a wish softer than a lily breath spreads to the garden door, touching pavements with pale blue warmth. close, so close, even afar.