by Muhammad Shanazar
The beads we count, the words we speak,
The wrongs we commit, the deeds we perform,
Assume the shapes pleasing or shocking,
Of flames and fangs, or fruit palatable,
Or fragrant flowers scenting the breeze,
Become the agents soothing or tormenting.
High upward I was led the steps seven,
And strolled through the drooping tassels,
Overgrown, hanging laden with flowers,
Sheeting green the ground all around.
The route led then me to the plain vast,
Where I did see the nodding pansies,
Blossomed blue, yellow, pink and purple,
As myriad sucking butterflies sit still,
In the sun on the dewy grass of spring.
They all fluttered when the wind blew,
The spectrum of purity stretched
All around, but the yonder lands,
Beside the hillock were still drab,
Dull, un-vegetated, yet to be made fertile,
And planted with more pansies.
Last updated June 26, 2011