Friday, October 15, 2010

Memories of those left behind

we remember the faces
  the eyes
               the voices
            the gleam of silk
                                       of metal
            a spark of fire

in my youngest of days i remember
the shape of that hill
                                  of that sea.
the murmuring stir of that crowd
     their eyes huddled
     their whispers disjointed.

embers and ashes skip on the wind
from house to house they sew
from tree to tree they weave
a maddening shroud

dancing in the street they swirl
scarves and dresses and sleeves and hair
fluttering in the air
with every turn they rise
with every turn they fall
with every turn they fall

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