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Photo by Basir Seerat
____________________
Seeking refuge
I wade, uncertain.
Through these field
of wilting lives
I moan, longing.
For I refuse to believe
that I stand against
the drying pain, alone.
That somewhere or here
I will be found, consoled.
In this sea of dying hope
I thought I saw them, waving.
But like the arid air
this earth breathe,
they're just there, too, waiting.
~ droL
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17 comments:
And the grasses bend their heads,
and weep.
Do they know the sorrow?
Do they know the pain?
Or is it an acknowledgment
of the beauty of life of living?
She walks unaware of their
prayers for her.
She walks unaware of their
desire to reach out to her,
To touch a hem and be blessed
by her life, by her humanity.
The pain is real,
The sorrow is real,
Their prayers
are real.
Yes, each blade of grass
knows sorrow,
knows pain.
The blood of innocents
has spilled in the soil
The blood of innocents
has seeped up into root and stem
and up into the bowing
heads that weep God's tears.
Tear that spill unseen
as she passes.
And the grasses bow their heads
and weep.
Who is this? What does she think, feel, desire? Why is she here in this field? Is she searching? If so, what is she searching for?
The enemy of her soul keeps shooting his words of fiery arrows into her heart..."No one loves you. Hide yourself here, where they cannot see you. You are good, they don't care. You know how they desire to harm you. Do not let them. Keep away from those people. They cannot understand such a person as you."
She looks at the ground, feeling weakened and oppressed by the voice telling her these things. Then her eye catches a glimpse of movement and she wonders. She bends searching through the long strands and she finds a small cocoon. The cocoon is beginning to open up, breaking its crusty shell of oppression. Something inside her begins to lighten as she watches this metamorphosis take place. She watches the winged creature free itself and drift off so gently through this field of gold. She gathers the cocoon in her hand and begins to feel the weight again. She is in the cocoon, waiting and feeling of no purpose.
Then, as she begins to hear the voice again; the butterfly returns and rests on her shoulder. She looks at it and feels an overwhelming warmth radiate from within her. Love returns.
As she looks into the colors and the splendor of this little winged creature, she realizes that there is purpose for this place that she's in. She begins to break free from her cocoon.
Oh, Laura Jayne...my simple words for you are "beautifully written".
Beautifully!
Walking through fields of gold
I step away from the shadow
Of life's hard, painful hold
and the sorrow inside
On the horizon there's light I see
Other worlds that are calling me
And so I walk towards the light
Through these fields of gold
Flying on eagle's wings
Though the sunrise is coming
And these words that he sings
melts the tears from my eyes
From up here I can see the stars
I can touch them, they aren't far
And way down below I see
The fields of gold
Such a simpler life
Without money or desire
Without greed, without strife
or the blood spilt from war
Is this only a dream I feel
Why couldn't this all be real
Or is it truly a vision
Of the fields of gold
Lying in a field of gold
I feel the sun touch my face
I no longer feel cold
or alone
I have hope that new days will bring
A happy end to all our suffering
And some day I will be
Leaving here to go home
Laura Jayne, that tugs at my heart and echoes my sentiments!
golden
indeed
that
and the music
is all that's left
a small consolation
when the phone rings
and that familar wail comes through
and i know
its the music
only the music...
LJ, beautiful. a writer indeed.
Laura Jayne, that's beautiful.
Very Nice Cynthia...DAD
The morning air is still. I walk the beaten path. My feet tread on the flattened growth. The world is silent. My eyes are fixed on the path ahead of me. It looks identical to the one behind me. The same. My arms swing by my sides, balancing me. I taste the air. It is cautious. Unknowing. I see similarities. Similarities between us. The still, cautious, unknowing air, and me.
I just know I lost that contact right here between two of these rows.
Leaves in hand
Wheat cries out, frantic shouting
'Oh, no you didn't!'
Sorry, that is the best I could do, all tired and short on time.
LJ, this great! Thank you for the follow, and I appreciate the lead back here! I look forward to more!
Peace,
IG
Welcome IG, glad to have you here. Your best this evening is fun, there is no right or wrong, just sharing of words.
excellent work!
There was a documentary movie made in 1927, titled, "GRASS." I know, I know, but it's not what you think. It was a very touching and poignant story about life in the mountains of Afghanistan and Iran.
The hardships the people endured each year in reaching favorable grazing for their herds are almost unbelievable. Women, children, dogs, cattle, sheep--amounting to about 50,000 people in all, if I recall, embarked on their journeys as separate groups, converging at the GRASS en masse.
It was wintertime; glaciers to cross, ice cold rivers to swim, snow fields to walk through BAREFOOT. This photo reminds me of that movie, in some way--perhaps it is the bowed head, perhaps the absence of supermarket
coupons and electric shopping carts we are used to. Perhaps it is the wish to address what is really important to us; what is real, what is necessary, what is superficial. What is to be endured, to look forward to, twice a year for them. Happy New Year. Thank you, Basir. Anyone who visits your site will be touched by stark reality, as only a photojournalist knows it.
Seeking refuge
I wade, uncertain.
Through these field
of wilting lives
I moan, longing.
For I refuse to believe
that I stand against
the drying pain, alone.
That somewhere or here
I will be found, consoled.
In this sea of dying hope
I thought I saw them, waving.
But like the arid air
this earth breathe,
they're just there, too, waiting.
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