Yet to come

When curse becomes bliss and,
When finger drops wash the mountain heat,
Craving for more brightness becomes part of a sorrow’s will,
Where rain becomes shelter, and summer breezes turn into mournful lullabies,
Kissing the shadow of the timeless feathers of mother Nature,
There I lay dreaming and writing,
There I lay singing and mourning,
While trying to imprecate the impregnable nature of something,
Yet to come.

Khaoula Zitouni