I have grown old and tired.
My hair turned white over years of longing and reaching for Lakishma.
I have looked for Lakishma around every corner and beneath every stone.
For moments I have even tasted Lakishma,
when a stranger and I smiled at each other,
the moments you and I talked and sang together,
when I could truly hear and listen to another,
the evenings when we lit wild fires and our gaze followed the flying sparks disappearing in the night sky,
or the moments when I lay in the purple heather and saw clouds passing by and there was not a thought on my mind,
those days when I was present enough to witness the short moment when Lakishma seemed sprinkled over the land only to be gone the next.
all of you, who, like me, are still hoping for Lakishma to stay,
to sweeten the harsh taste of our lives,
walking down the windy road,
the mere tasting of Lakishma will never be good enough.
It will pass,
therefore, if you are as thirsty as I still am,
to be filled with Lakishma
give me your hand.
Let me tell you what I’ve come of late to understand:
Lakishma always is, but
we must first learn and allow to stand in despair and discontent,
the pool of tears beneath our feet,
Hand over our fearful
for Lakishma outside ourselves.
Only a breath away,
in the silent space
which has no name,
The word ‘Lakishma’ is my own and I use it to describe the elusive state of home/happiness
Poems chosen from an anthology of poems called ‘For Crying Out Loud – Voice of an Exile’, published early 2016.