Fire must not be excited by the blast
Not melting but only a calcining mass
Melt the crude to a glass with patience
Gold calx opened for further operation
The process of Myriam the prophetess
Be employed in labors of great consequence
Like Myriam's expression to Aros
Of dead ends therefore be careful
Darkness laid for noonday bright
Poverty triumphantly put to flight
They that know these three
That differ not in substance perfectly
Which came from earth to earth returns
High heaven's resplendent portions burn
Where from flow ambrosial streams
Pouring into the land of richer things
You must pardon strange expressions
Sweet and decadent confessions
Have you beheld a flame that springs?
Greatest of most scarce discoveries
Believe water can be made of stone
Upon virgin gestures of the unknown
About the Creator
Khalil Ghibran
Twitter: @khalilghibran8
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Reaching Out
I promise her. I'd do anything for her. She's my mom. Even as Lanie and Deanna are flying home, Mom is scrappy fighting dying. She lays too still in that too-big bed with all the toasty white hospital blankets, in the south tower, at the broad end of a long slow-turning corner that delivers me again to her private room with the view she can't see through, with the beeping that tells us nothing new, and all these ice chips she can't swallow, and a flood of well-intentioned nurses who cannot do a damned thing all the same.
By Christy Munson2 days ago in Fiction
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