The silver cord is bent like a bow, ready to snap;
by Olutayo K. Osunsan
The golden bowl is a drought riddled land with cracks,
The almond tree has found inspiration for its bloom in my hair.
In my house the two ladies strain to see through the tinted windows of my vision, my servants have halted their grinding duties, the strong men that carry the burdens are stooped low to their knees and the guards that are the pillars are trembling under the ebbing of time.
The sound of work has faded into the years and the doors to life's opportunities are shut; the water jar is already shattered and the pulley is broken.
Memories are left as tokens as the voice of the Master's calls from his glorious abode.