Pakistan Christian Post Is Your Voice Since 2001

Six events of peace, a poetry by Dr. Stephen Gill.

I cannot see the burning bush of your beauty because extremists have loosened suffocating gases from the sea of their terror which envelope the mountain. Storms hide the glow with the dust when the albatross of bigotry flies over the flo
Worms of wrong prophets

eat into flesh.

A feverish state

builds the fancied walls of Jericho

while your radiance strangles

within the nauseating cobwebs.



I wish to hear

the melody of wonder

that floats in the rhythm of harmony.

The lost gulls of harmony

hover over the bay

of the dying day.



Where is the water

that flows

from the spring of your grace?

The emerging age shall bathe

in the vitality of the freshness

of its dawn.





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(2)



Through the cracks

in the crumbling walls of now

I grab

particles of the dust

from the diamonds of your

shoreless abode

of the fathomless bliss.



More than

the sweet sobbing melodies

the amaze of the amazing abode

of your calm grace

is to me.

Its recollections tiptoes

in the caves of my words

and

its sobering silence plays

with the lips of my thinking.



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(3)



When the spectre of gloom

looms in the gown of fear,

escape by the boat of self

draws me closer

to you.

Swayed

by the waves

of the softening solitude

from the shores unknown

I lose my being

in you.



The dove emanates

as a fire of faith

from the driving drifts

at the altar of the deity

of demands

where humans assert

their uncertainties.



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(4)



In your sight

I see a Moses

reflecting on the glass

of my solitude.

The dazzle of the star

signs the death note

to my darkness.



From

the disarrangement of the void

a lake appears.

I hear murmurs

from the ripples of the dawn.



The fishes of the still harbour

sense the star

while manna from the moon

burst into

the petals of my strength.



I wish to swing

under the wings of our affinity

on the steps of a mystic.

A deepening silence

knocks out the mobile launchers

of restlessness

as dryness mocks

the paralysis of life.



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(5)





I am often greeted

by the bursting flutters of the dove

while rambling the rayless resort

of the fears

from the scamps of my surrounding.



I hear

some unknown voice calling her

to be above the confusing cries

of mindless feverishness

and the hounds of alienation

from the houses of infamy

of social upheavals.



I see her fleeing

from the blinding fog

of unfulfilled human dreams,

blank eyes

facing blank walls of the present,

half-blossomed flowers

of the youth of aspirations,

meaningless pledges of our leaders,

and above all

those concerns which lie

in the locker

of the anchored ship of memories.



A soothing glow

from a fireplace of compassion

that would radiates

the redness of young lips

from the future,

burning the decaying stems

of the buds of the past,

should entice that dove

before the last star of the evening

bids her farewell for ever.



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(6)



In a cabin of inaction

built with beams of silence

often I long to slumber

on a couch

with no flesh of worries.



For me

soft drops of harmony

shall produce a lullaby

from the notes of now.