Her Song

A piece of paradise, in the city of kings,
Walled-in from its grime and its crime
By white-washed walls, white pebbles strewn
Beneath rough tables and chairs, a nook in time.

Beneath the shade of gentle pristine trees,
Whiskey like liquid gold flows on the rocks,
Wisps of Gold Flake smoke like silver dreams
Curl upwards and vanish in the darkness of her locks

The smiling waiters, melting into the shadows,
Unobtrusive, indifferent, respectful, calm, silent;
Not so the dark, angry, moral policing clouds,
Rumbling in envy of love, threaten to be violent.

And then her voice, full of the joy of now,
A song of passion, wistfully beginning to rise,
But suddenly choked, by sadness of coming separation,
That melts the clouds, and they flow through her eyes.

I have always been a great believer. I've flitted from one belief to another, from religion to atheism and from one philosophy to another, until I finally settled on J. Krishnamurti whose philosophy is that there is no philosophy. So now I firmly believe that there is nothing to believe. Now such a belief would, I believe, have been considered dangerous to society if the authorities had believed me to be of any consequence. No man of consequence they believe would waste his time on the pursuit of blogging!

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4 comments on “Her Song
  1. Oh dear, how it reminded me of dancing with the daffodils. But how painfully did that last stanza take away the smile, of this utopia cocooned within these walls.

    Beautiful!

    Cheers,
    Blasphemous Aesthete

  2. Smooth writing. I read it a few times. The line, “But suddenly choked, by sadness of coming separation,” jerks you a bit. I was wondering why it didn’t rhyme with ‘now’. But it brings out the right intensity.

  3. Tragedy in the end makes it look beautiful.
    But I’d still hope for it to become a happy song.

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