They’ll hang me at dawn

I was a painter of truth

But they broke my brushes and spilt my paints

Tore my canvas and murdered my saints

And my repute they marred with taints

But I picked a paper and ink’s hue

And with words painted as true

But they took my paper and pen too

And threw me to a dark dungeon

So I couldn’t see the sun rise and set

Yet my mind still flew as free

Gathering what was left of imagination

And sang from the heart

Till my voice shook their very ground

And their surly faces twitched with anger

Foreheads wrinkling with disappointment

For they could rob me of all glory

But couldn’t take away the music in my soul

And so they’ll hang me at dawn

Still a bird shall perch on the gallows when am gone

And continue my song.

 

At Pompey’s Feet

O Caesar thou liest so low

From thy wounds royal blood overflow

Lightning strikes, gales blow

Heavens mourn Caesar’s death

It strikes me deep in my hearts depth

At Pompey’s feet he lies, pale and short of breath

 

What a shame gullible Rome

That you welcome such villains home

You have defied the mighty capitol’s dome

How long shall Rome stand such treason?

The blood stained hands must give a reason

For Caesar’s soul waits at the horizon

 

Bring me my armor and my shield

To Caesar’s spirit they must yield

Brutus despair’s at the battlefield

He resents and runs into his own steel

“Caesar now be still,

I killed thee but with half a will.”

 

Ps. A tribute to Shakespeare’s play Julius Caesar

 

 

 

 

 

Sweethearts by my window.

Two sweethearts passed by my window one night

Lost in each other’s eyes

Strolling the lovers street hand in hand

Like two drifters

Sailing the seven seas

Then I forgot myself

And I thought of how I too

Would love to become one under the stars

With my sweetheart on lovers street

Suddenly saw my silhouette against the candle light

Then turned to my meaningless routines

Of a heart starved of affection

That has grown fonder

But in the silence of that night

Even the moon was blue.

 

 

Three teardrops

In the hollow of my empty room

There was an echo of a ticking clock

And by each second hand a leaking tap

A maddening frequency

Followed by a frightening silence

An aloof reflection of my wretched being

An echo of cold desertion

And the first salty tear dropped

Upon the agonizing twist of my lips

And taste left my tongue

The second cascade trickled

Along the contours of my tender cheeks

And softness left my heart

The last cruel silvery leak

Flooded the valley of my nostrils

And breath left my life.

Song of the Jungle Gypsy

I was lost then

In the busy of your mean streets

Its drowning deafening noise

Men of crusty souls creeping in the dark

To worship their neon gods

But I am found now

On the comfort of the soft undergrowth

Looking up the tall trees

As the sun rays pierce through the canopy

Leaning forward to kiss the earth

I left footprints on every city street

Yet home at last is my gypsy soul

In the very palms of the creator

His mountains, His rivers and swamps

From gorge to gorge, meadow to meadow

My books of veined leaves

Lifting fluttering young birds to fly

I have loved the wilderness

For loving humans is painful

For it has loved me in return

In the end it’s the jungle’s fragrance

The scent of goodness that remains

And so when the clouds let forth

I will lift my face to the skies

And drink directly from the cup of God.

Lost letter.

In this city whose charms have fled

I took a walk along ruins painted red

Among the rubble I picked a letter and it read

“Here in the damp of a lost war

On a paper soaked with blood and sweat

And a pen with a burnt end

I write this letter to you

Is how the end of my days is spent

The pen grows heavier than my gun

For homely regards absent love

Would be just ink stains upon some line

I would set it on a raven’s claws

And whisper your name to its ears

But all this love will tire its wings and weigh it down

So I set it on the wings of hope

And pray it gets to you someday

If I shall fall to my foe

Gather what remains of me

Plant a whistling pine on my grave

On my headstone these words engrave

‘Here from the depths rises his soul’

Think of me always

When you sit under its cool shade

Listening to its symphony against the wind

Think of me always

I deserve that of you

For having always thought of you

How to make you happy

Be so”