NEW PROMPT: My take. |
I grow cold, bleeding under the flesh The hair – sings – like grass on stormy moors Somewhere on nascent planets Purple skies and shivering ebony trees speak hurriedly of chaos and life spirals A silver bird drinks endlessly at the end of the day and patches of the night grab its wings Somewhere on desolate rafts, they still listen and hold the fast-decaying clay A blind moon is buried in the endless graveyard I grow old, Softly, softly The muslin descends from ceilings and taxis I must have been drinking then, the lips had turned red, The tender clouds kept floating outward where the lights were wane Mournful and stained, the gutters whistle And the Sweet, velvet shade of the evening lifts Was it your hand, was it the curve of your feet, or simply the turn of your back and the rustling of your hair What caught the snatch of dawn, what held the carcass of time and painted infinite lives on their salt skin I give back to the stars, The millennia will find a way To resuscitate dust and create little citadels Where the lion and the lamb drink at the pool I give back to the soil, The roots weave tapestries of hands Simple, small, pink hands They must have asked for you they must have scraped at your chest they must have beaten to sweet water your familiar incense I give back the caravans of fate The road is beautifully curved The serpent around the night mountain The rains that came, the flooding at the back of the brain, I give back, I grow old The deathless preponderance of the cycle, the glowing crucifix at the bottom of the ocean, I return, I grow cold. 36 lines. |