A stab in the dark 16
16
"I am the first soil,
the breeding ground
of all conscious effort
tolling in windows."
Wine flows red on walls
and sirens interfere
with the dead street walking;
thugs feast on visibility.
Money makes bombs
that burn children.
Fingers of old itch with power.
Giants roll down captured hills,
break into villages with cheers,
dreaming of a world of free banking.
There is a call for fat children.
Free fall suicides,
daredevils the old scribes forgot
while copying the myths,
fall into darkness rising
below Gilgamesh mountain.
Nowadays rivers of tears
run through broken valleys
where cedar and cannabis
once spiced the air,
where the olive was a stream
long before the flood.
No shepherd ever strapped
belted death to his day,
no goat ever went missile
for the sake of a different tale
where Ur does not echo.
Shamash! Ki!
The Sumerian ghosts
still sing in the shadows
where villages bleed.
Poetry by Bob
Read 1064 times
Written on 2011-09-21 at 21:20
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