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.



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
its sobering silence plays
with the lips of my thinking.



When the spectre of gloom
looms in the gown of fear,
escape by the boat of self
draws me closer
to you.
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.



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.

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.



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.



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.

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