Heat

December 28, 2006
iranian.com

The slender arc of the horizon
fades between the two blues.
The plane jerks up, then down
invisible in the cloud's embrace.
It is cold outside
and I have been traveling
ever since I remember.

Below lays a land
that my father called home,
that bound him with a love
he rather not have known
running to and fro
in praise and in slander.

But just because they
believe with conviction
doesn't make it necessarily true.
We can't plan the next
one hundred years,
the next twelve wars,
or the bounty to recover.

I see but a sliver
between the dark clouds.
A lit candle perhaps
for the children, not ours,
lost in the desert
that will cover the world.


Jam07 (almost)