Monday, May 14, 2007

Good Breeze

The hermit doesn't sleep at night, in love with the blue of the vacant moon. The cool of the breeze that rustles the trees rustles him too.

I am called Breeze. I blow on pleasant mornings. On sweet evenings. Upon elderly mountains who have been there since eternity. I blow between the gaps of a pianist’s fingers. I blow when the night is no longer absolute. When a hint of future color softens some flower-cheeks. I blow with feudal splendor. I blow in the wings of flamingos that come rummaging for happily frolicking earthworms. I blow in the purple slush of pond scum. I breeze in the hair of perky guys in the middle of rainy nights. I am called Good Breeze.

I don’t know how I originate and who spawns my disguised flight. Yet everything that slithers on this terrestrial ball loves me. A million smiles piggyback my glide. I am beautiful, dainty but I can’t talk smart. I only whisper in the woods near Sam’s home. I whistle too -- on solitary afternoons. Hunters lying in the wait can shoot in thin air, mistaking me for a spotted gazelle. I can fool people. I can make them giggle. I make the girls' tresses skitter, long enough to make them blush. I make some eyes more impish than they usually are. Perfumed candles flicker their flames when I pass by, as if serenading my existence. That makes me happy. We all long to be loved!

Lovers do a quiet trapeze when I enter their embrace. Friends look at each other as their tender hearts waltz’ to my zephyr. I sneak into the unsleeped rooms of stoic razbliuto’s. I dance on the palm fronds. In the fluffy wool of a lost pack of merinos. Across prairies of the wild west. I live a soft life yet I feel powerful. Remember that old-as-turtle white-bearded, longhaired philosopher, who built Shantiniketan. One afternoon, as he sat in his forest-lodge, I blew in his flowing beard (he he…I can be naughty). At that he entered something in his tiny maroon dairy. I was curious; you never know these writers. Lucky for me he kept the dairy on his tea table and took a nap. Gently, I blew to turn the pages. You want to know what the old guy had written with his wooden reed pen ~
God's great power is in the gentle breeze, not in the storm!

Sameer

6 comments:

Anjali said...

What beautiful imagination, Sam. Wow...man gaayee..no one can match ya, if u are in ur element. My boss just read you, he was all praise.
:))))))))
Why dont we meet sometime, man.

Anjali

Sarmad, said...

Clap-Clap-Clap.
Stunning poetic lines. Too good.

Nick, Massachussets said...

I've book-marked your blog. I think it is a very interesting piece of writing. I simply loved your post 'Good Breeze'.

Highly recommended!
Nicholas

manprit said...

ah the beauty of romance...
sam

Manprit

JUST_IN: hello said...

You sound like wordsworth here. In love with nature, ponds, ducks and ......hu ha....bol bol, who else!!!

Adrain K, Belgrade said...

heys..that is cool. I love your artistry. Nice blog, I am hooked!

Adrain Kovacević, 20....
The University of Belgrade, Belgrade