Helen, Hear It
Oh, daughter of the East, jewel of your own history,
hear it. Listen to the hum of peace, deep, vibrating
sand until it ripples in soft sighs. The lilt and lullaby
of shrines and golden domes, soothe the open palmed valley,
cupped to catch sound. It will hold it for you.
Water trickles over stones in pools and streams,
trees swish their finest skirts in rhythm
to the heart of a field of chrysanthemums
turning their bright faces to the morning.
Quiet, and you will hear their petals droop in praise.
Bright orange red anemones on desert hills
know the call to rise, to dance in defiance
of this dryness. Even the sunflowers sing yellow
while they await their brown harvest.
Cyclamen cry and curve from the stones
at the simply soulful shush of dry wheat sheaves
strumming their golden promises.
Egrets are clicking their nests together,
Storks clacking at rifts in the sky,
and lop eared cattle in the fields
lean low on the grass and moan
in the wait for peace, sweet as liquid chocolate
sloshing in the metal vats, mixing with a whoosh.
Peace singing like spices in the marketplaces,
zinging like fresh squeezed pomegranate juice.
Peace, hanging like clusters of dates, waiting to drop
like drum beats onto these dry days.
Look, footsteps are sounding
as people walk in the newest sun,
shadows strumming the slivers of sand
and grace, amazing grace, rides the waves
of bright colors of a prickly cactus choir.
Listen, Helen, do you hear the songs of Peace?
Put your ear to the ground and let it sing you
songs of solace. Close that place of fear,
plug your ears and watch mysteries of music
mouth their psalms to you. They bless you,
sister, do you hear?
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