hinges hang in rusted silence
like the arms of wise men
they roam the russian steppe
and there in the distant snowy drift
the sables are warm in their woven dens
beyond distant borders
holy men hang in celestial silence
slowly breathing
warmed by monastic fires
they transcend this earth of stone
and on the rocky paths
strewn with men and trinkets
the animal bells ring with a sweet vibration
like rhythms hung from a noted page
such are the stories of far flung lands
born of cold mirror wishes
dreamt in silent hope
for we all are hanging
by this thread as it were
suspended in this web of sugared powder
calculating the taste of sound
driven to the edge of this glassless sea
and like you
i too was born in that distant storm
and like you
i wait for the rising wind
for in the sour mist
there will come the bitter tidings
forming clouds of steel and clay
and from those sacred elements
our cities will be born
and we will live there safely
among the crowns and thorns
-Jason Cyrus Akhtarekhavari 7/16/13
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