Sunday, 15 April 2007

Sheol

I walk among the graves
of your soul, weeping,
wetting your epitaphs,
so eloquent, with
the tears of a harlot.

I utter to them the
words you would not hear,
for my harshness would
cloak their worth,
and I lisp as I speak.

Cold earth, cold morning.
Breathless dawn, tired.

I trespass unwillingly,
since I am found here,
having ears to hear,
but no hands to touch,
an impotent oracle
and arrogant!

Perhaps my only boon
to this place of slumber
is the tears that wet
the graves of your fathers
long slain by the illusions
holding sway
beating the land into
submission.

Cold earth, cold morning.
Breathless dawn, tired.

I meet you amidst the dead
and you flee from
my face, silent rebuke,
and just. For I am
uninvited, foreign.

My speech is to you
alien. Ill-understood
and loud. Yet we have
come so far, you and I
though our paths never
would touch, except by
fragrant similarity.

Cold earth, cold morning.
Breathless dawn, tired.

Make a draught, my eyes,
of silver mercy, and pour
it out amidst my sins.
Entreat Him to relent,
and have mercy, for
there is no eye open
to mourn for the dead,
not even mine, for I
friend
am blind.

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