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Morocco

Morocco

 

Morocco

  

On the steps this afternoon they sat;
The crooked men, aged and faded.
Like the stones, they sat.
On the steps, they talked.

Upon a language so ancient and weary,
They laboured with each breath.
Coarse and dry, their voices caught
Each crack and echo in a timeless land of sound.

In colours, pale and windblown,
Cut by sand, the old men sat and talked in time,
Pointing to the air, drawing patterns on the ground,
Painting visions with their words.

Perhaps they spoke of other lands,
Of ancient kings, or tomorrow’s heroes.
In the wind, their words were as free as kites.
And we passed by the steps unseen.

  

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A Myth of Creation
Christmas in Japan
Niagara Falls
The Voice of the Twentieth Century
Worlds Where Matter & Spirit Meet
A Hidden Mountain
A Luminous Ocean Waiting
Alone is the One
Children of the Unknown
Faint Call of Divinity
For my Grandfather
Journey Into Peace
Magic Days
Meditation
Morocco
Poetic Inspiration
Subtle, Secret and Sacred
Sunset in a Southern Land
The Attendant of Time
The Poets
The Prime Minister’s Visit
Three Limericks
When Words Fail
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