Ghosts

Ghosts  (The eternal pain of Exile)

On the windswept plains of ancient Pars

Ghosts stir from half a century’s slumber:

Persian valleys,  blossom-heavy boughs

And Khayyam’s whispering, silver streams

Persian winds scent Seychelles nights with perfumes from another life

Long-forgotten faces, places, and the musky scents of spring

Ruffle the calm waters of my island exile

With a pining for home