What do you think of?
I think of the seas
I think of the sands and the wind in the trees
I think of you people, your worries, your strife
I think about dust,
And I think about life
What do you know?
I know of time, and of waiting for rain
I know of the ancients, of love and of pain
I know of your heart, it is cold, like us
I know of life,
And I know of dust.
Why are you here?
I am, for I think, and I think, for I know
I am like the winds, the rain and the snow
I am for you, and I am for us
I am for life
I am for dust
Where will you go?
Nowhere, I think, for the best of us
cannot see past the black edge of the dusk
The question is not where we’re going, so trust
Your heart is life,
though you are dust.
By Sarina Fehr
My daughter emailed me a poem she wrote. It made me think so I asked if I could share it. With her permission, here it is:
If I went to the land of poems, would this be poetry?
If everyone talked in rhythm,
and never missed a beat.
If everything rhymed, and that was normal,
would this be poetry?
If I went to the land of black and white, would the rainbow be dull?
If the brightest colours were gray,
and the sky was dull,
and the grass was dark, and that was normal,
would the rainbow be dull?
If I went to the land of songs, would words be music?
If everyone sang,
and the streets pulsed with music,
and a conversation was a melody, and that was normal,
Would words be music?
If I went to another land, would I be different?
In China, Africa,
or anywhere else, and they were normal,
would I be different?
Sarina Fehr, May 4, 2010