Morning

We cannot talk of morning cheer;
somehow like music it
has wisdom out of syntax,
out of this world!

The roads are washed and lift
the earth to smell like
childhood in cool air,
the stale buildings quietly sing.

One wonders if it’s all
the same to everyone
or if I have only
slept so very well;

slept a mere protected life
under vast and limpid skies
and dreamed the moon – the same
that shone for beast and man.

Who can measure how
much of you is in it,
how much our love that you
bear gently in your arms?

Mood is god of dog and doom,
words, sounds are all we have,
taste, touch, sight and otherness,
vibration, proprioception, self…

All living bodies emanate
their palindrome:
you in I and I in you,
we live aside ourselves.


Taimur Khan

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