Green Muffin Hills
(I’m the ashes beneath
your holly feet my Miriai)
Blood cells turned blue…
a mass of blue kelp floats,
somewhere amidst nine layers of fog;
You see no one except the “I”.
You see…there’s no one encroached ever,
the valleys of green muffin hills resembling,
Sprinkled pearls of dew… in them alloyed rhizoid bacteria
fertilizing the images of someone supposed to be Spiritual Something
but where?- where is the one who felt down in despair for the
Men lost the idea for
the Magic of something called Love, and the Hexes of
Creativity beyond visible forms
and shapes disperses, and colors, and nuances, and sound,
and vibrations, and feelings, and destinations…
and destinations…
and destinations…
…and the tree that laments the
death of lianas embracing its marvelous body as old as
Holy Scriptures, those who
evaporate the smell of Nard and keep between its pages the wreaths of Myrrh…oh
Mother Miriai: “I’m the ashes beneath your holly feet when you swear in
Certitude”: In my forehead there’s a
testimony, the Angel of the Right Shoulder and the Angel of my Left…are witness
what my Womb bears: for others are unable to see what you saw, Miriai. No,
there were never neither they would ever be able to see, what you saw:- what I
saw…what I saw…what I saw…what I saw…what I…
©Fahredin Shehu
28, Feb. 2014
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