The world is filled with so much noise.
I am not talking about the limpid note of the Ney
nor the melodies of the nightingale falling in love with the rose.
Those – I hear in poems.
I am talking about the strident sounds of war and destruction,
the ones that deafen me beyond the silence of the screen.
These sounds are thick and tainted with green,
the dirty green of shame.
And no matter how much I try to shield my heart,
they penetrate me to the bone.
So what am I to do?
Of course I want to fill the world with the sounds of laughter
and look above the clouds and under the tables of elegant ladies.
Of course I want to love. Really love.
Love the man at the corner bent like a half burnt candle
and the little girl calling with her deep dark eyes in the mists of rubble.
And I want to kiss. Really kiss. With tenderness.
Like a child holding a seashell in the palm of his hand.
And I want to share. Share everything.
Melting butter on warm bread,
the smile of my son as he falls asleep,
and the immense sky above my house.
I want to trace with my fingers the scent of jasmine
then gently caress my wounds and the ones of the world.
And then maybe, just maybe,
the warmongers will stop and
silence will no longer deafen
becoming the soothing one so many poets write about.