Ya amar, bury me
across your ribs—
where wind writes, my love
in the dust of your silence.
Your absence is a sama without stars.
a prematurely folded prayer rug.
I wait, as olives wait for salt
for your voice to crack the dawn.
They talk of love as a homeland—
a homeland which the soul cannot map.
So let me live in exile in your name,
A refugee of your fingers.
Every night, I count the steps
From my door to your shadow:
Sabr is the moon's ancient scar, but my patience is a well gone dry.
You wonder why I whisper your name. into the palm of my hands? For God listens best what the heart keeps repeating like rain.
About the Creator
LUCCIAN LAYTH
L.LUCCIAN is a writer, poet and philosopher who delves into the unseen. He produces metaphysical contemplation that delineates the line between thinking and living. Inever write to tellsomethingaboutlife,but silences aremyway ofhearing it.
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