Inspired by the notion that every thing in existence has a path, a calling, to follow. Not just people who realize a sense of personal purpose, but everything—From insects to sentients, pebbles to mountains, meres to oceans, clouds to nebula, asteroids to blue giants. I don’t mean predeterminism, but something else—Something much more subtle.
Destiny
Brooks are weeping gently on each stone, calling;
Soft the wind consoles with a light moan calling.
Autumn leaves float faintly to the ground;
They flitter along in the wind’s drone calling.
Deep in the forest, an ancient falls crashing;
Silent airs pursue its last, lone calling.
Seeds take to soil; clouds nest in tall canyons—
Each heeded the seat of its high throne calling.
Do you wonder where the falling stars land?
They go the way of their last known calling.
What is that sound so difficult to hear?
The silent sound of the heart’s own calling.
Zahhar hears again your delicate voice—
Sweet on the breeze, a subtle tone calling.
This is my 77th ghazal.
