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Dedicated to the loss of my Cousin Salar

By Slater Bakhtavar
June 2, 2004

An old man sits on a withered log
Stares into the forest fog
A great martyrdom of fiery frost
In frozen lakes his mind is lost.

Summer fled and winters here
Bred in him no lessened fears
Gaunt trees and winters mail
It‚s snow and loss and sudden hail

Shadows in lakes bring memories
His living families pain and miseries
Suddenly a noise attracts the woods
Chanting footsteps gently introduced

A beautiful boy comes running near
Golden smile and hidden fears
He eyes the old man and desists so
He questions he and why he loathes

No manners show the wrinkled face,
But a shaking hand to waters grace
The boy leaves whispers and grieves within
As he eyes the water filled with sin

His face now trembling and weak inside
Steadfast pain for those he eyes
Why do they cry for I am here?
Why do they cry for God is near?
Do they not know that I‚m alive?
Do they not know through them I strive?

The old man shakes his bowed head,
And points his finger to a withered bed
Here we‚ll loath until they understand,
That we are here not in distant lands
Until that day we shall just breathe
And dream of heaven‚s only dream

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