High under a frowning peak, a little spring of thistles sprung out of the rupture of stone. They were fed by the wind, and now and then they thrived completely just like poetry.
Poetry is like gasping a little at the size and beauty of life. And when I went out to hold its hand, I pursed my lips and seemed to think. Everyone knew why the poetry had come. Life tries to give aid if it could and poetry if it could not, and a fireplace either way.
Buried are thistles.
Here you may have them.
They capture the light.
And so it begins…
We could feel the changes
Waiting for us to go out at night
For a long moment
We look out in the darkness
We seize a stone
And we rush outside
And as we move
The light comes back
In her eyes
That glow so fiercely
So carefully Love
Does her work
The lightest sounds
Like flames
…Moving about the fireplace stone
Hadi Atallah 
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