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forestbathing

forestbather

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ghazal

 

Blood splattered jeans ripped at the seams and the sand blows

After the explosions between more to come still the sand blows

 

And through the trees where the blossoms will come some day

He dreams of pleasant things and lips waiting but the sand blows

 

Not even the hardest words heard are like rockets or like missiles 

Bullets they come and they go and some stay and the sand blows

 

Your name has been whispered high up across the mountains 

And deep in the hearts of brave lonely men while the sand blows

 

Yet it is I a mere forestbather who reads paths through tall trees

Left to record stories of love never consumed for the sand blows