The Windows
Windows are (open) verses (of poetry)
On the lines of dawn
When it pours in the cups of the sky
Windows are widows of begotten books
Windows are transparent fruits of a hidden tree
Between the wrinkles of the closed doors
They can see the galloping hills
The smile
The cry
They know well the meaning of goodbye
They wave, wave back
But they never go away
Nor do they take any way
They have learnt all the chants of the sky
Including rain and snow
Light is no bad news
The old man in the window was not me
But, rather, the widow on the shelf of morning
Copyright © Youssef Elharrak | Year Posted 2015
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