Amman, downtown breeze

I came across a lonesome face,

among the figures stuck in traffic,

Someone there, somewhere,

Longs for a distant place...

A place, of dreams and magic.

 

this ageing scent,

Of dying breath,

And history,

Is just too tragic!

 

The wandering braids,

Scout the town,

Hoping, things will come around,

 

As early risers greet their way,

Their faces Pass,

and fade away!

 

The stones, and old homes,

Fill the empty space Between,

fiction, And the stories we tell!

 

They reek through the alleyways,

With reflections, bright and keen,

Mixed up with the old familiar smell...

 

Of Passages old and dusty,

with all the features printed in,

The smiling pale of concrete,

And the fellow local grin.

 

This,

I can barely define,

stories-high,

As we go by,

simply left behind!

 

But passenger light,

Drops in flight,

In the hours of eight 'till five,

As i caught the melody sung in sun,

In our hour or so long drive...

 

But I couldn't tell,

This old scent, and what's not,

Why This raging ravel, still, seems forgot,

Although they've bettered it out,

Today,

With siding hopes,

There's little much left,

But little still floats!

 

By:

A.r. Black-Iris Bazian

The Black Iris Of The Luminous Imperious

Reviews

[Tate Morgan]

A deep look into your life and times i love the rhyme