In the long rantings of my brooding pen
I have found that poems never answer
but they groan, ache and talk
whatever is left unspoken by them
can hold the vastness of pacific,
that their metaphors are nothing
but lost lovers who speak in thoughts
fulfilling themselves in illusions
and that what poetry asks, must be answered
and fullstop them to an end.
We talk like old friends
(which we are)
and I promise them their lives
while walking to a synagogue
of unknown distances.
If I could
I would travel to a place as far as carpatus
where words have home and the doors they are bookmarked
where forgetfullness is permitted and I am naive
a place, where the sky rains into prayers; where wishes resign to end
and clouds are a prophetic darwish to tell you what you need.
I would know how your name on my lips
leaves me with the sweetness of baklava.
How your skin is filled with the softness of a breeze
yet the warmth of a sun.
And just how your eyes can hold
all the powers of the galaxies and stars
and days and nights