Wind is Thistles
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I moaned and sat up suddenly Her eyes wide and her Nostrils flaring for a blood test Sweat formed on her upper lip Where I could see It would be the same deep cleft A consideration to massacre Where streams collected at the tip Lay over this desert country Ahead the stone mountains Looking cool…
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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,…
Hadi Atallah 