Sitting on the Hill

The stars now ready to appear,
Sticking to the sky everywhere.
The sun will touch the half-red sea,
Also in the form of C.
Silently sitting on the grassy hill.
The birds warbling softly till
Their song will be suffice,
For me, these notes, the nice.
For God, my love, a lot of thanks.
Allowing me to hear that voice.
When I look upward
To those which moving toward,
Their nests created with minute care,
Something rare,
So, my heart wishes to fly.
Bursting out of my chest to try.
To life, come the wind of the west,
Lulls the leaves of tress to the rest.
The brush of the sun paints the cloud,
With rosy hue coloring our land.
In the middle of the yellow field,
The scarecrow descends his hand,
The flimsy grass kneeling down,
When the wind passes again,
I hear the whispers of the grain,
Murmuring, with prayer, to the One,
In the moment of jubilee.
Thanking the One for being free.
I left the hill, very gay
Looking at the slow decay of the day.
By Mohammed R. Monifi


Dedicated to Sylvia Plath, American Poet