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The Architect of Morning
What if dawn delays at my pane,
Fearing dreams too long displaced?
I send my shadow down the lane—
It knows the streets I’ve never faced.
My homeland breathes in mother’s tea,
Its edges traced by grief and flame.
Each night the map reshapes for me,
Erasing paths I cannot name.
We built a house from borrowed years,
Rooms filled with seasons touched by frost.
Yet jasmine climbs beyond the tears—
A prayer no winter’s chill has lost.
Between the beat of hope and pain,
I hold the sighs my father gave.
Light rushes on to ease the strain,
Yet lingers slow around the grave.
This morning, sun rehearses light,
Stumbling through its cautious rise.
“Endings teach the seeds of flight,
In dawn’s own tongue, the promise lies.”
So breath by breath, I raise anew
A country built from whispered trust,
Woven deep in grandma’s thread—
Strong stitches spun from soil and rust.
The morning waits beyond the line,
Not crossed, but close enough to feel.
I learn to shape its grand design—
An architect who dares to heal.
At last, the dawn leans through the pane,
Whispers soft as wind through trees:
“Come home,” it calls, “end your strain—
Return where hope flows with the breeze.”
Copyright ©
Saeed Koushan
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