fleet of foot
on wide slanted lines
precious little artifacts
hidden in the moorish design
glistening azure tiles to the sky
white hot roof tops
and spice market flags
they shift and flap
high above the mud walls
and the summer fountain yards
beads turn over clutched hands
nimbly building prayers of glass
shattering spirited worlds
affecting far removed hearts
away in the fields of some distant land
and there, among the banyan trees
shade grows long with the day
turning and pressing the jam scented fruit
soon to be on its way
to coffee houses filled with steam
a taste between conversations
and the words they carry home
will fit like the scabbard blade
passing between lips
unknown they will digest
with a passing sleight of hand
a forehead kiss goodnight
the dreamers will have dreamed
they will awake
to mornings yellow light
hearing the sounds of silence
and the birds aloft in flight
crossing endless landscapes
around and round they go
always back to where they started
but they do not even know
-Jason Cyrus Akhtarekhavari 6/20/12
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