"Thistle" slumbers on the heart of a lost poet who is trying to capture the waves of inspiration once again. With the last iota of strength, the poet depicts her lament for "the days of yore" when life had a different shade of happiness. It is also a call for all those lost souls shackled in the claws of bitterness and wrath; a piece of advice - a soul is lighter and healthier if we let our rage go; stop being it captive. In the end, "Thistle" is a whisper in these vociferous times.
The thistle on my soul
pokes, burns, then grows
again, out of the ashes.
This thistle is a black Phoenix!
With the wings of an Albatross,
strong and magnificent
it never stops
but it dives into my skies
by days and by nights
then, turns into a thistle again
jiving upon the heart - a pincushion!
That is all we are -
a cushion to this pin thistle life.
There are unwritten sorrows in me;
in the dead hour of the night
and goof around
my chamber, jeering at my face;
they are the unwritten
constellations in my space.
But once you open the door
they vanish into the unknown
so, come with hope,
light andA Love…
Let us erase the unwritten,
let us do the impossible!
What is the butterfly on my lips?
Is it a breath, the sun or rainbow?
Nay, it is thy kiss –
Electric, colossal, arrow and bow –
drawn, aiming at my heart.
Should I wait for it
or should I dart?
Into the darkness of the old fears
where no life throbs,
and the heart of a deer
But the eyes follow the butterfly
across the navy blue sky,
then it lands on the shoulder
always, forever; it does not die!