Monday, September 12, 2011


Her hair is blond and blowing in the wind
As she plays upon the stones.  When she falls from her perch,
Her laughter rings in hollow valleys.
The stream sparkles and her hair sparkles
Under the yellow sun that is smiling on the earth
As if creation’s dawn is
A coolness comes between her and the sun,
The daylight cut off quickly when she runs
Close to the tall gray structure of her fathers,
Door-hole gaping deep.  It is the temple,
Where the painted priests serve who knows what god,
But he waits to engulf her heart.
Not yet.
She runs back into the singing sunlight.
When to the temple she returns, her hair
Still gleaming (now in torchlight), she is silent,
Another lamb sacrificed uselessly,
To purge the pricks of a miserable conscience.  She lies
In a pool of Life, drawn from herself, that has
No power.

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