Infinite tendrils,
weave exquisite patterns,
forming an immaculate, delicate sheaf,
while morning's dew whispers,
tales of forgotten woes,
left scribbled on every leaf.
Murmurs float gently,
across solitary trees,
to distant forests deep and dense,
teasing the waving grasses,
while coquettishly inflaming every sense.
Listen! For the murmurs whisper to us all,
listen carefully,
as the whispers recall,
the crushed memories of the lovers' call.
Listen!
For the whispering leaf shares,
a story that may travel,
to you, to me,
if we still our minds,
and,
gaze upon each leaf,
and quietly marvel.
The African Rains
Soaking,
the rains settle,
meandering over jagged faultlines of our memory.
Drenching,
the rains settle,
streaming through veins,
the thud-thudding of the heartbeat of Africa.
Absorbing,
the rains that settle,
within each of us,
herald rebirth.
And,
if you listen,
if you strain to hear,
while shedding the raucous noise of your inner turmoil.
If you listen,
the whispers of the ancestors,
speak to us all,
lending us warmth,
urging us to stand,
even though we may stumble,
even though we may fall.
Bionote
Afzal Moolla lives in Johannesburg, South Africa. He writes for pleasure and enjoys reading non-fiction and the occasional novel.
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