The mulberry trees dream

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While wild vines wind their ropes of scarlet fire

About the poplars on the bank

And leaves fall pale and thin as wintry sun

The mulberries hold up leaves of glossy green

To catch the failing heat before the season’s done.

 

Their roots delve deep into the dark

To drink from wells of a forgotten source

Cold and pure beneath the desert sands

Where golden memories sleep in tombs of tumbled stone

Fallen walls of cities built by servile hands.

 

Running water sings in cool dug earth

And laughs in fountained gardens’ cloistered shade

That echoed once with songs of sweet despair

Of birds in gilded cages hung beneath the trees

Their notes still ringing in the dusty desert air.

 

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On the eve of autumn at the turning of the year

The mulberries remember summer’s song

And raise their boughs to listen to the rhyme

As crystal water courses through the earth

Murmuring stories of stone basins cracked with time.

 

Rocked by memories of summers past

The mulberry trees prepare their winter fast

To sleep and dream of Persian sands

And times when scented forests cast a soothing shade

Beneath the everlasting sun of antique lands.

The silk trees dream of home

©OliBac
©OliBac

Night lingers beneath the silk trees’ curving boughs,
Velvet soft their star-spangled canopy,
Bejewelled as a sultry bridal gown,
And cool as the fountains of Samarkand.
When the golden sun lights up the eastern sky,
Dewdrops hanging from rose-silky petal spikes
Reflect the hues of hanging garden blooms
And glitter with the songbirds’ liquid notes
That pour in sorrow from a thousand captive throats,
Filled with all the grief of broken wings.
Growing far from home with roots in distant lands,
The silk trees’ feather leaf fans fed by foreign streams,
Across the years and burning desert sands,
The breeze sighs with their languid cloistered dreams.

Persian silk trees in the rain

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In the rain the silk trees drip
Soft and cool about the seated men
Murmuring oriental stories
They had not thought to hear again.
Rain falls to the cadence of their memories
On pale pink flowers, balls of bird-like plumes
That cluster glittering with their fragile hues
Persian paintings caught among their blooms
One man lifts his face to the lacy canopy
And catches raindrops in his outstretched hand
Reflecting hanging gardens of another time
And the long dusty road from Samarkand.