Three poems by Aman
The walls made of bricks
Hold no solace,
The hum I recall is gone!
I move to the unknown,
Yearning for the song
Which perhaps may be my own
A long wait it’s been
To hear the sound
To the far horizon
And should the note ring true
Will I really reach that elusive hue?
To yearn for a grand morrow
to have striven for the ray of thought
only to realise you’re happiest with your lot.
Know your need, not the want, the path reaps the price,
Alas only the old now realise.
Even the “great” in death strive to tell us,
we depart empty handed the way “He” had made us.
‘Tis just me, young in body tho’ old in mind,
How fortunate, I understand, there is yet time.
The words that you see; mean not what they say. The path that we follow will lead us astray. A pinnacle we reach, clawing our way through a shroud, all we achieve is a modicum of doubt. Let not the rational lead you otherwise, the path turns to thorns, in our twilight we realise. Break out break through for you and your own; like Charles did eons ago unknown. We build but to no avail; our bones will turn to dust no matter o’er whom we prevail.