A mandolin plays a melody that enchants the ears and lets our mind stray to that mystic place,
Whereby the morning air is filled with the perfumes of lavender and of dew a like the Parisian courtesans fragrant self,
And too alike such images of wonder is a man self-made in the weaving of thoughts unto the worlds eyes.
Where gowns fall like stars and babes,
And cloth flows like rivers and love.
A creator has many a child, a birth in each time he reveals something of himself to somewhere in us we change,
Change like a wind or too like a thought or feeling, that swirls like a pool and stirs like a vodka over ice.
Freedom, he opens,
Love, he shares,
Personality he gives and leaves the cookie crumbs for us all to follow, back to that special place, the mystic.
I can hear the mandolin play,
Flavoured tobaccos swish and sway like new trees in autumn.
He is the mystic.
Words by Alt
ziadghanem 