To Faith


You and I are old soldiers,
Aren’t we?
Our souls in scars, our hands all chapped and sore.
But aware of each other’s stolid presence,
In night’s delirium and in day’s commotion:
Peaceful at memory’s cross roads.
Sometimes, like a windblown maple leaf in autumn.
Sometimes, like light of stars on a snowy mountain crest.
And we will on this path still continue,
With ice-axe clinging to the very verge.

Comments

Basque-Land said…
And so the soldiers are the tenacious surviors eh? I love that last line, "with ice-axe clinging to the very verge".
Nazia Mallick said…
Thank you Rozanna

You got it right, as always!

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