I think of heaven: A poem 

I think of heaven 

when it is seven 

When dusk surrounds 

the tired weary town 

Harps play around the fountain 

A river flows from the crescent mountain 

Will is a potent vision 

that fructifies all illusions 

I am caressed by the stars’ brilliance 

They are cool and not too distant 

Halos brighten up each face 

On golden wings angels race 

My mirage lasts up to nine 

When my sleepy head signals bedtime 

Then I say a silent prayer 

that my guardian be my soothsayer