Poetry in flames

A hymn for the broken thread A.R.ABDULLAH The streetlamps hum a crooked psalm, The bar is locked and cold, And every heart that seeks a calm Is buying what was sold. You sit beside your broken cup, Your shadows on the wall, And try to stitch the moonlight up Before the heavy fall. ​To all the dreamers on the wire, The lovers in the dark, Who trade their fingers for the fire And bargain for a spark, I know the song you cannot sing, The letter sent unsigned, The golden weight of everything You had to leave behind. ​And you, who walk the world alone With sadness in your chest, Who built a chapel out of stone To give your ghosts a rest: There is a crack in every vow, A crack in every street, And that is where the grace is now, Where sad and happy meet. ​For joy is just a visitor Who borrows for a night, And sorrow is the governor Who turns off all the light. Yet somewhere in the quiet space Between the breath and skin, The broken world reveals a face, And lets the morning in. ​So lift your glass of cheap red wine, Your ragged, bleeding heart, The holy and the undivine Were never far apart. We dance upon a silver thread, We stumble and we climb, Forgiven for the things we said, And rescued out of time.