Monday, October 7, 2013

The Old Iris

From Home ... 
The dust of those who have gone before us
The empty houses of our beloved ones
The only cloud on the blue skyI call from home.

Trees of our home, and the old builders 
that only build the land for 20 years
Expected the youth would be with them!

Wisdom of our grandfather
Planting on our earth

I'm the rock that shamelessly 
forgot where his roots are. 

Back Home
Where my neighbours still visits me
Pure like Lily, or more like the white cloud 
The days will come and the sun is right behind me.

Home, I call
I'm right behind that door
And the old Iris is with me.

Copyright © 2013

1 comment:

  1. Thanks to The nations of Poets for letting my poem be here. I invite you to visit my blog.