Reality
A street harlot sat, the child passed with his mother
the whore sunk, alone, in the corner
his innocent, inoculant eyes, suspended
hers cast in sight of his color
“Mother, Mother, why?”
sang the child’s little voice
but mother tugged his wrist
“Walk on, walk on boy.”
Potential
There they met, lover on lover
in the corner, in the twilight, in the evening
now she’s in the
streets, now in the
squares, every door, every corner seeing,
the brazen face with linens prepared,
myrrh, aloes, sprinkle her bed,
as bird hastens to snare,
and is captured there,
“Let us delight ourselves with caress.”
As an ox goes to the slaughter
there they met, lover on lover.
Reality
“Walk on, Walk on boy” the mother’s glance
A corner whore the boy runs to embrace,
In innocent grace, small hands hold
her breath shakes. Tears break,
“Let him be the first to throw...”
there they were left, her and Him, all alone.
Comments
Post a Comment