The Psalm of a Desert Bird..

About a Persian kid, (Sammy)

.

The young sky

Of the broken empire.

Below the burden of a broken song.

...a quail with broken wings.

 

Her books are made of fear,

Her bitter sunrises smell of sadness.

Her silence is louder than seas.

 

 

* * * * * *

 

 

I know my dearest...

They've forgotten everything.

They've hidden love inside their long, dark robes.

They'll flagellate your ingenuity.

They'll burn your throat before you sing.

They'll burn your hands before you write.

They'll burn your legs before you dance

 

My sad dove,

Do not dream..

Do not dream about the sky..

And the forest I breathed into you.

It's far away..

A thousand miles through deserts.

And a thousand miles by the Ocean.

 

My dreamy child.

Pay no heed to me.

I'm drunk on fear.

The melancholy moonwine.

 

O, Beautiful bird.

We have twisted our ribs to fortify your nest.

We cried into seed of the planet to quench your thirst.

We compiled our passion under your celestial wings.

Ye sweet ballad of retribution!

Yet another song of revolution.

 

 

You remember the stories.

You remember the half-drunk poet who sang about the moon-like peri.

He rained in the east.

He reddened the white flowers of Shiraz.

 

You remember the maiden who craved to dance

in the carnival of love.

She was dried by the angel of faith.

Her skin is the ash of the winds of Persepolis.

 

 

* * * * * *

 

 

Ah..

We're drained of our love and sanity.

We're deceived by the green men.

People of the book...

Their green pillars with green words,

Fell across the state.

The glory of sunrises were stolen from our blue throats

As our shadows boiled in the tears of dawn.

Ha.. 'Tis your drowned nation.

'Tis your mortal jurisdiction.

Beneath the cloud of pandemonium.

Here we abandoned our legs and our hands.

Here we retired our hearts and our heads.

We left our fathers, we left our mothers.

Our yesterdays eclipsed under the shards

of their promised heavens.

Our eyes estranged the romance of our ears.

 

We lost our land.

We lost our land...

In the December of the snake eggs.

 

 

* * * * * *

 

 

Now you have begun your self-assault.

Like water

Like bags full of animal bones.

You tend to talk about the aroma.

Of leopard corpses.

 

You still stink of love.

From Mediterranean,

all the way to my isle of green sand.

 

 

Become the salt of the earth, my child.

Devour the endless legion they cast unto you.

Your dominion over the river is unquestionable.

Your reign over the melting snow is unassailable.

Behold, battle-reddened eyes!

The semblance of our world saturated in your love.

The sapidity of the mountains soaked in your elegance.

Breathe this lament, breathe this dream.

Heal our land,

Remain in the sky.

Remain the water.

Remain in the forest.

Come home to me.

 

*****

Author's Note

The image came up in a random search, I do not own this. I just thought it'd suit the work.

Reviews

[Richard Man]

This is resonant of Omar Khayam but of a different age. It is either bureaucracy or the law or religion that oppresses all our creativity in all of us, our souls are being wrapped in cling film and boxed and then our details formulated and filed, our actions are noted and reported and reactions occur against us and our individuality is crucified.
This poem is a true cry and a true declaration of love of the deepest sort.

[Thorne Heathenspring]

Thank you. I'm too flattered that you mentioned Omar Khayyam in the review. As long as a human being's freedom and the right of expression is taken away somewhere, our species is not truly free.

[Richard Man]

Your poem sang the truth.

[Careline]

this.... is beautiful... you took these words like ore, and crafted it into the one of the most beautiful poems I've read.... Amazing..

[Thorne Heathenspring]

You are too kind :) Thanks for the read

[saratogaparty]

Wow.

Just wow.

I kept trying to copy and paste random lines I liked, but there were just too many! Way too many!

This is amazing.

Poetry at its best.

(A declaration I hardly ever make)

[Thorne Heathenspring]

I'm astonished :D. Thank you my friend :)

[Louise-Charlotte]

There's something so pure and honest in the sadness that emanates from your poem... We read and see and smell everything and feel a pain that belongs to an experience we never had. It's brilliant.

[Thorne Heathenspring]

I'm just too happy that I could communicate the emotions. Thank you :)

[Addi]

I don't really know what to say, except that I really liked this poem and you have a great style.

[Thorne Heathenspring]

That's enough to make me happy :) Thanks a lot

[Addi]

Sure, any time :)

[Michael Kevin Spencer]

This poem had a great authority of suffering and climaxed near the beginning. It felt like a series of poems and where sadness is put up on a pedestal withe dozens of fantastic lines. You should be very proud of this piece, it is exceedingly artistic.

[Thorne Heathenspring]

Thank you so much ;) I should mention again that I wouldn't have written a single word of this without a muse who has melted my moments with sadness

[Michael Kevin Spencer]

Muses help a lot my friend, and I apologize if I brought unwanted attention to your page, it was only in the hopes that it might encourage you and show you how gifted you truly are!

[Thorne Heathenspring]

Oh. I was surprised. I can only thank you. Nothing makes me happier than to know that people spend their much-valued time reading me :)

[Michael Kevin Spencer]

Stay here, write with us, you are only among friends now :) Let us see your new writes, I will wait patiently and with anticipation.

[Circe]

this piece moves me to tears.. it is deeply passionate and spoken with such sad authority... with tender encouragement.. wisdom and maturity... and it is the very presence of beautiful at all times..

"we lost our land, we lost our land, in the December of snake eggs"... i'm not sure what the snake eggs mean but i certainly know this feeling.. amazing how words can transcend all barriers...

it's as if you bled for every word here, and i believe in everything you say. spectacular.

[Thorne Heathenspring]

Yes, Circe , I couldn't have written a single word of this without someone/something adorned by pure sadness, clinging to my thoughts so intimately. December..Something about Iran/1979. Thanks a lot :) for trying to connect with the feeling.

[Circe]

it certainly commands the respect and importance of a deeply moving experience.. the life changing kind.... this is an epic poem, everytime i read it i am more amazed and connected to these revolutionary ideals.