Saturday, September 22, 2012

Parchment faces

This fleeting autumn
shows its quarrelsome temper,
teased with golden,
but left us red leaves,
squeezed in cold hand
of wind
with parchment faces,
with wrinkles of losses,
the chronicles,
written in world sanctuary
by time's scribe
in ancient script
10 lives ago
being oracle -

now recognizing
no symbol,
only feels in the veins
vague desire to stars,
to nature,
story telling beacon,
like native with
naive characters
inventive, but broken,
holding the trust in me,
the oracle.

Hopes, believes and stories -
cascading as brooks
between hills,
through the hurdles
to bring the purity
of healing arts,
and ancient credo:
to heal with clear hearts

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