tha e fliuch an-diugh ach tha na flùraichean gu math brèagha. uisge a ‘glanadh an talamh. Spiorad a ‘glanadh an inntinn. Aig a h-uile mionaid.
A strain upon a lyre harp
Sweeps a sound so low
That only those who gather round
Can catch its sweetness flow,
A strain which speaks of suffering
A woman’s heart is torn
As she watches martyrdom
For her son she mourns
A strain of sadness at the tomb
She searches for her dead
An angel pointing to the skies
Which dawns a crimson red
A strain upon twelve tender hearts
Who sit in upper rooms
And still the strain plays out its tune
From sadness of the tomb
A strain upon a sepulchre
A white robed body lay
The saviour rises, then appears
The rock is rolled away
A strain it sweeps his Mother’s heart
With gladness, faith and joy
And plays its tune eternally
For all who will enjoy
The strain is never ending
Through time and space it plays
The bloodied fingers of our saints
Keep it playing today.
Some days the mountains speak to me
defending Truth and Love
like Angels climbing Jacob´s Ladder
to and from Above Continue reading “Mornings In The Mountains”
Last night I dreamt of Lilac trees,
Upon the Garnock Stream,
amid the thorns and briars thick
a purple colour beamed
I thought about the folk who came
and chanced upon this sight
perhaps ancestors, long since gone
left it burning bright
Perhaps a bird did carry it
from far and distant lands
or from a child´s hands it fell
and grew to proudly stand
Or from the Castle seeds did blow
across the glade and vine
to where the lovers meet in quiet
with bodies deep entwined
In every living time and place.
There lies an Al Baquee.
A place destroyed by wrong ideas.
Lies scattered in the breeze.
And of these stones or tyrant”s thrones.
God raises seed and kin.
To teach mankind about himself.
Releasing us from sin.
Love itself does meet us there,
And guides us safely home.
Rasing thoughts to higher calls.
Away from shattered domes.
From darkened sense of sorrows hence.
We must not look away.
But far from clay and broken wood.
Love itself does stay.
Look inside your own dear heart.
And find your Al Baquee.
Build upon the terrors raged.
For there lies Love’s decree.
To find your peace when wrong ideas.
Attacks seem far and wide.
To know that Love is ne’er destroyed.
It’s always by your side.
Bring the stones of peace and Love.
Rebuild your Al Baquee.
A daily act of kindness builds.
A shrine eternally.
Look no more to desert lands.
And Baquees far away.
Prefer to look to your own heart.
And build your shrine tbis day.
Daily salat and duas
cement the stones in time.
Zariat adds the precious jewels.
That no man can design.
Love for those who hate you still.
Will add the Golden doors.
And daily zikhr will ensure.
Mosaic tiled floors.
Written in Oban:
What good is found in mortal mind, In dreams and people’s views? Wandering round confusion bound, in dead, old worldly shoes
E’en in the sun no good can come, nor rain, fog, storm or dew, but holiness is typified, In some worldly points of view.
Look beyond the worldly scene. Of arab, gentile, jew. And you will find in conciousness. The Spirit that shines through.
With larks and beauty yet unseen, as powerful Love presents, with views on high like eagle’s eyes, of music yet unspent.
A world of Love and colour brings. To each man with his lyre, That one and all, we are the same, reflecting Love’s desire.
In every place and time there lies a blood stained kerbala land where people die with martyr´s blood which stains the yellow sand perhaps a place within our minds which kills all false ideas but with it love and peace are pushed to fall and disappear like Hussain on the battlefield or Hasan´s poisoned cup we seem to live history anew by thoughts which do corrupt Silently we think our thoughts from places dark inside which reaps a battle outwardly which never does subside and then we mourn as saints the men whose blood they left behind not knowing we ourselves did kill by our false thoughts in mind