Eyes Of An Oasis

Strolling on the unpaved streets,

The world appears in front of a lake,

Where some women fill their pitchers,

And I am not distant,

As their giggles ripple placidly,

In the afternoon's heat.

No, I can't be distant,

When mirth is born and lost here.

With the pitchers being filled,

And the giggles all spent,

They move without elegance,

And yet I find beauty there,

When droplets cascade slowly,

Upon their forehead,

The eyes of an oasis speaking,

In numerous ways.

Promising an infinity,

That is never discovered,

The day leaves me,

With unheeded prayers.

So the night paints,

Some cerulean solar systems,

For those black eyed beauties,

As I am not there, I was never there.