Bell Towers

The cool breeze brushes my shoulders

in this early Autumn afternoon,

as I work at the desk,

listening to the shy birds in the garden,

and the gentle rustling of

the branches just beyond the windowsill. 

The bells at the quarter hour reminds me,

like an artist’s brushstrokes,

the flourishes of life that we

have forgotten in this reckless age,

the beauty in which life’s motherly hands

has always draped us,

though our wandering eyes

have bypassed her elegant sweetness,

in their reach for the artificial glamour

that boredom has conjured.

So for a moment,

please forget about all your troubles and the prosaic affairs

— forget about the weekly schedules,

the incomplete lists, the calling acquaintances;

forget about the self-inflicted quests,

the righteous ordeals, the unknown future,

and the non-existent past… And simply look;

look at me, and saviour each moment

of our life shared,

of our walks along the creeks in the silencing rain

who shows us the grey ruins of an ancient battlefield,

where the remnants of a castle stands like a lone hero,

weathered by the sands surfing the desert wind,

protecting the woods where fairies live;

saviour each moment,

of our café pauses through historic towns,

our quiet nights of secret murmurs,

our light-hearted anticipations for each other.

The beauty of life would then surely unfold,

and she we may already see in our mind’s eye.

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Published in: on 07/09/2017 at 4:37 PM  Leave a Comment  

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