The old French woman.
On Africa's far distance shores I awoke from slumber deep
My soul to greet the hand of destiny
My seekers karma would degree that I would that night meet
The kindred soul that set my spirit free.
Her gestures frail with aged years, skin wrinkled, dry to touch
Madam sits neath a yellowed moon of pain
Her silhouette so poignant in simplicity was such
That I was drawn as moth to her bright flame.
Her gaze looks out to endless sea of Atlantic rolling foam
Her eyes, her eyes, the eyes of everything
My silent presence in her realm was not to her unknown
As her voice would me now softly to her bring.
She spoke her voice a whisper, yet with clarity of rhyme
Parisian French denoting her domain
Her face the face of angels who have ambiance with time
Her beauty though quite aged would remain.
Beneath the moonlit swaying palms of a magic rock strewn beach
We sat as friends in a familiarity
She laughed, I cried, she thought me lost, and for my hand did reach
And spoke in quietude these words to me.
The well of tears flow from the rivers of your empathy
Your pain the rocks to build your dream upon
Your ragged aura soon I see too one of symmetry
Your demons flown, no more their wretched song.
I felt within a calmness I had thought not to attain
A oneness with that spirit known as I
No more to feel the purgatory of others endless blame
As through sky's of understanding I now fly.
Brendan.
Poetry by Brendan Finbarr Tully
Read 1128 times
Written on 2006-04-27 at 22:49
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