Abwoon D'Bashmaya

Our Father who art in Heaven

             It's time to go, migratory birds listen

             as yearning whispers echoes from the distance,

             revitalize my sore homesickness, a pink

             dawn paints indelible wish on the zenith;

             it's time to shift, as mystic breezes' longing

             lightly caresses my awakened bold wings,

             the missing Home's promise tinkles in lucid

             messages of wind-chimes unworldly music;

             it's time to desert illusions' silver sand,

             my lost footsteps fade along the lonely strand,

             fallible earthling chased by immortal dreams,

             it's time to vanish in firmament's bright gleams.

             Somewhere, beyond illusions' ultimate end,

             You are the light upon my terminate sense.