it is a guerrilla night
in cities and in the forests
three ancient ghosts roam
and in the country of ghosts
the inns are full
with lost sailors and motivated poets
roaming, disinherited, incomprehensible
I am, who you are.
and us – mirrors.
and in the mirror, do you see the light -
of glowworms that must not glow bright -
on a guerrilla night?
candlelight is different
so are moonlight and neon-light
the alleys of the cities are full
the jungle-paths are full
the stormwatchers’ tower crumble
who are we? – echoes whirl
weary garrisons pant
weary chimneys pant
dog-eared city turns a page
forests stare and shrink
the heart’s terrains shrink
the mind gives a jewel
the giver gives it all
who is there to take?
who is there to play?
mist gets thicker on everything
everything is nothing, or else
nothing would ever make sense
the grand temples fall
trumpets trump no more
Meher Ali knows. Meher Ali knew.
dusty leaves of towns
catch a faint note or tone -
recall carnivals. dream dense ancestry.
some dream of magic
others stand to make sense
water flows. the moon rises. the earth ages.
and thus, having moved
in circles, we return – we turn
to being, to time and to space.
in this dot, shadows are dead
light is darkness and darkness is light
or else the wells wouldn’t fill
somewhere, a solar storm breaks
some catch a whiff
from the seas and dream of homes
flowers bloom in garden of love
flowers wilt in island of pain –
ghosts and lovers know of the breezes
the rest who went to know
met a broken bridge or two
and thought they would swim across.
for such, beloved, is the situation –
moonlight guards birds. birds guard cornices.
it is an aware night. it is a hungry night