Fourlinegraphia

  “What did I have?” said the old Arab man, “What did I have before the roaring machines?” I had palm trees whispering in desert wind, Dates like honey in the hands of my sons, A quiet well, a camel’s slow shadow, And stars that belonged to no one but God. >>> Then strangers came with maps and promises, Eyes fixed not on my trees but the earth below. They said the sand was rich with black rivers, And the desert would shine with golden wealth. My palms were cut, the wells grew taller than minarets, And the night filled with the thunder of engines. >>> “What did I gain?” said the tired old man, “What did the desert gain from this black fire?” Cities rose where the dunes once wandered, But soldiers marched where children once ran. The wind carried smoke instead of prayers, And the sky learned the color of war. >>> Decades passed like drifting sandstorms, Kings changed, flags rose and fell. My sons grew into men with rifles, Their sons into shadows in distant...

Born like a worm, Little and low, Crawling through dust Where quiet shadows grow. >>> Beneath the sun, life starts its dance, Where roots and hidden worlds entwine, From humble soil our stories rise, In earth’s embrace our spirits shine. >>> Man stands tall with boastful sound, His voice may echo far and wide, Yet he forgets the silent ground Where ancient truths and worms abide. >>> Tiny worms in patient grace Whisper softly from below, Of time and space and nature’s place, Where every living being must go. >>> But breath will fade and bodies fall, Pride dissolves in dust again, Returning gently to the call Of earth-the oldest home of men. >>> Then worms appear in silent peace, Not as foes but nature’s art, Ending fear, bringing release, Returning life where all must start. >>> So worm and man,both small and grand- Begin and end in nature’s blend, Part of the same eternal plan, Quiet companions in the end >>> I speak as on...

If you would know the worth of a mother’s love, Ask one who grew in silence without her care. In empty rooms where childhood stories fade away, Her unseen grace still whispers softly through the air. * Some strike the hands that once had helped them learn to stand, The arms that wrapped their fragile lives in gentle peace. Yet in the crowd they show a tender, borrowed love- A strange display where truth and contradiction meet. * A mother stands, the quiet pillar of our lives, The hidden strength behind the heights we rise to reach. Her silent gifts, though seldom praised or spoken of, Shape who we are far more than words could ever teach. * Her love’s a fire that warms the coldest nights of fear, A steady light that guides our wandering hearts through storms. Yet life can leave her spirit tired and bruised by time, Her faithful heart still holding warmth in broken forms. * Some turn away from those whose love had given life, Chasing a fleeting joy that quickly fades away. They close th...

  ************** The first light whispers softly in saffron morning hue. Across my quiet window spreads a gentle waking dawn. In many Indian homes a story begins like this- A mother’s patient love awakening the day. * Before the rising sun I wake with sleepy eyes. Like countless mothers starting quiet morning chores. The house still rests beneath the pale and waking sky, While quiet hands prepare the rhythm of the day. * “Betta, wake up now, the morning sun has come,” I call. My daughter slowly rises from her drifting dreams. She smiles softly, still wrapped inside her dream-world. While pale gold light slips softly through the window bars. * Her uniform waits pressed with ribbons ready to tie. Two patient braids fall gently down her shoulders now. Sleepy laughter slowly fills the quiet morning room. Morning sunlight warms the silent walls of home. * The scent of cardamom slowly fills the warm air. The kitchen wakes with spices ground by careful hands. A steamed banana waits beside...

  In God’s vast poem she was a passing line, A quiet shadow drifting through the text. Her colors faded in the writer’s dark ink, A dream that time had slowly washed away. She had no name that echoed through the lines, No weight to bend the rhythm of the tale. She came and went like wind through empty rooms, A fleeting step between important scenes. The pages where the spring of love once flowed Had long grown dry beneath repeating words. She spoke the same old lines the story gave, A dull refrain of days that never changed. Within a half-written and wandering tale She was a patch between unfinished thoughts, A seam the writer placed to hold the thread Of something larger she could never see. But in a silent corner of the page A question stirred beneath the printed lines: “Why must I live inside this narrow space? Why should my life be written by your ink?” That day the ink that shaped her fragile world Could not command her wandering spirit’s will. The fences built by chapters cra...

I stand here strong, both brave and tall, Yet truth be told-I hate war’s call. I never wished for fights or pain, I only wished for peace again. I love the quiet morning breeze, The rustling leaves upon the trees. I love the songs of birds at dawn, And golden fields the sun shines on. I dream of laughter, pure and bright, Of children running in delight. I dream of roads where people sing, And simple joys that mornings bring. I dream of home, so far away, Where my old parents kneel and pray. My mother waits with hopeful eyes, My father hides his silent sighs. My little sister waves goodbye, Pretending that she will not cry. They tell me, “Son, be safe, be strong,” But I can hear the fear along. I never wished to hold a gun, Or march beneath the burning sun. My heart was made for gentler days, For peaceful fields and quiet ways. But darkness came, so cold, so near, A shadow filled with hate and fear. It tried to steal the peace we knew, The sky so wide, the morning dew. So here I stand u...

  War took far more than names carved into stone. It stole the quiet mornings never born. The kettle sang, its silver breath in air, yet empty chairs stood waiting by the fire. Not only lives lost far on distant fields, but futures dimmed beside a kitchen pane. The bread lay whole, untouched upon the board, and missing hands left silence at the table. The stories fathers never told their sons, the rusted hinges crying on the gate. A garden plot lay waiting for the spring, its patient soil remembering their steps. The maps of lives once sketched in hopeful lines were torn along the fragile edge of time. Dry ink remained upon the unread page; the pen hung still within a quiet room. Written on an unread page: "The greatest loss of war Is not the life fallen on the field, But the future stolen from the kitchen window Dreams waiting at home that will never return" . Long shadows filled the patient hallway’s length, while ticking clocks spoke softly into air. A city's strength ...