The breeze flowed through her mind, her feet crunched on the mossy grass, of the bubbling swamp. Dim foggy world, left her clueless, with just her hands helplessly, in ache of words, in ache of some comfort to abide her.
She waited. Sat down in the middle of the stone ruins, covered with dark, green, moss. Her brown hand, in her interest, rubbed away a few vines covering the grey hard rock tablet.
Carving of writing.
Carving of words.
Written with the end of a dagger, on the stone, in lines of words, and tethering hope. Hurried voices, of long ago, people, who left these tablets for the oncoming generations.
There are many burning roses,
Aligning the dark ferns,
Oh, how lucious is the fire of hope,
Yet damaging the under low,
A grave none can touch,
Deep under the roots of the heart,
How deep are those damp feelings?
We never allow a lot to be seen,
But He knows what's under the sinuous vines,
Allah knows our burning,
And He knows the remedy as well
The water under it,
That sweet-scented Iman,
How it can flow out...
We ignorantly looked elsewhere,
And He showed that,
it was deep within you all along,
He helped you find it,
And how it cooled your burning,
How it eased your hardship,
And how grateful you are!
- 𝓮 . 𝓪
YOU ARE READING
Written in Stone | ✔︎
PoetryWhen times come in the rough, the elders leave behind a carved manuscript, with words of wisdom, to help cope, with the darkness that curdles around the innocent souls When hope seems to be dying, the stone is found yet again With carved poetry...
