Strangers

 

Strangers

Box, stamped in California with thousand pieces inside,
I frame the view on the wall, I keep the post card alone.
Egyptian beach and I dance, no words, just one- “gameel”,
when the Red sea honors the black eyes, I agree.

First, exciting steps in the world of  most beautiful girls,
as a guest I read stories about butterflies and poems.
Giggles over the most delicious cup of coffee, looking at
the face without a name, enjoying two pretty apples on the shelf.

Just after sunset a letter from Greece with love
and gratitude in the air I smell, I am compelled.
In the chaos of letters, I stumble once, I stumble twice ,
but Jingle bells take me to the right place and I feel safe.

The sounds of Pachelbell’s  piano, drawing art on ice,
musing by moonlight, I dream, I write every day.
Nickname made out of bubbles and the mind whirls,
life has new instance and taste of chocolates.

Out of someone’s back pocket instructions came to me
the broken sparkles I repaired and now they glow,
to light the recipe for the warmest salad in this winter,
for my bare feet in fierce snow to avoid redundant flow.

And when the sheep skip the barn, jump the fence,
I count the words, but not the one from my classmates.
The words of travelers, strangers they may seem,
but only when the miles of the distance scream.

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© 2010  Broken Sparkles
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