Letter From Jerusalem

I am back. Back to where I once was. Was not long ago. Ago in a time different. Different yet the same. Same places same people. People never change. Change is great. Great to be back. Back to where I once was. Was not long ago…

It may be a cycle, yes, but I have just started a new spin. Am I spinster? Maybe. But, then, aren’t we all. We all turn, turn, turn; only, some of us turn to good and some of us turn to alternatives.

Yes, the Holy Land. Ah, the Holy Land. Oh, the Holy Land. (I sound like a skipping (or not) Beatles vinyl.) It’s funny how truths remain the same. I will leave you with the third poem (actually a song) I have ever written, incidentally while studying in the Holy Land. It may be a bit moldy, as it has been sitting at the bottom of my closet for the past five years; but mold never really affects truth – and truth never really fits a mold.

Though exciting, it is weird showing something so simplistic that you wrote as naïve nitwit; but I guess everything I do will always be simplistic and I will always remain a naïve nitwit, albeit more conscious of the fact. Well, here it is.

I write a letter from Jerusalem –
The land of our fathers; the land of gold.
I write a letter from Jerusalem –
A letter of happiness; a letter of hope.

Coming upon the city of old.
Stones disguised as bricks of gold.
You feel that little twitch we call soul.
It’s warm outside but you shiver in the cold.

Before your heart starts to speak
It’s so hard to say what you feel.
But wants your eyes begin to weep
You realize that it is all so real.

All the sparks come together in one big flame.
All the threads come together to form a knot.
For some reason you feel ashamed.
You feel the tears rolling down and they are all so hot.

The sun sparkles before going to sleep.
The wind shutters in a satisfied sigh.
The skies open and begin to weep.
You spread your wings and begin to fly.

You soar over the mountains of fear;
And through the valleys of despair;
Passed the fields of iniquity;
Into the pages of history.

And as the words of the heart, which we call tears,
Join with the thousands shed throughout the years,
You brush your hot lips on that cold stone.
And you feel that you are finally home.