Women there walk,
white dresses flowing.
Courtyards echo cooly,
concealing children at play.
Bakers smile; bread beckons,
brown and fresh, to the crowd,
passersby, on foot and horse,
purple-clad and humble.
Great gardens grow,
green-bright, blue, and red,
by a murmuring river meandering,
its melody simple and soft,
slowly singing among them
of sweetness and of love.
Laughter, glad and free,
lingers always in that sunny vale.
Their whispers fading
wakened me then.
The blazing brilliance
burned my eyes.
Sand shifted
soundlessly
around rubble and rocks,
the remnants, standing still.
Today, I toiled,
teaching, as I could;
my busy bustle
broke me to sleep;
lists of the left-undone
littered my desk.
Dreaming, I returned,
down winding paths.
In the Valley of Kings
are vaults forgotten,
names forever lost,
of a nation once alive,
eating and drinking,
entertained, carefree.
When, at last, will
my whispers fade?
This poem was inspired by my visit to Palmyra about 10 years ago. I really enjoyed my visit to Syria, and all of the terrible things that have happened there since sadden me. I wonder about the people I met who work there, like the waiter at the hotel restaurant. I pray that they are still safe.
Recent works:
art courtesy of @PegasusPhysics
