Your prayers seem slow to ripen,
But the fields of ears do hear.
The warrior of change is riding
Windhorse, Great Garuda,
Repressions end is near.
The aggressors face so clearly lit
by fiery torches on hillsides stand,
These withering blooms
never lost from sight,
Gesars flower in their hands.
15th Feb 2012
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Poet's Notes about The Poem
as a single thread,
weaves its' way
through the readers head.
no particular style
they bind together
we either cry
Comments about this poem (Hope by Amala Comer )
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