Vol 11, Num 8 :: 2012.04.13 — 2012.04.26
Through winding paths the home is lost —
brothers who tend sheep and grow barley,
friends who play marbles under fig trees,
the sky mercurial with the blazing sun.
He stands on the hill, mist at the grey horizon
sculpts faces from childhood, playmates sprawled
under the shade of a fig tree, no cares or pains
mark happy faces, laughter rings like distant bells.
In wilderness he lay under the open sky,
dug with a staff water from dried river bed,
rested in caves where rats foraged for morsels
of dry bread, raisin cake from quick-fix dinner.
He collected people like pebbles, hundreds of them
that he polished with faith. The sand sang to him,
dunes filled his pouch of fortune. Bells of the sheep
clang dully through thick sandstorm as he led the flock.
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