The clouds cast a spell,
The subversive winds refuse to repel,
The air tastes of garbage,
Like memories wasted in Carthage.
Before you leave,
Twice you return.
Waiting for your soul,
To respond to the wild fern.
My experiences resonate a cheerless glory,
Centuries and centuries have buried your story.
You raise eyebrows at my unadulterated audacity,
At my feminine body,
Which understands not the limits of femininity.
The sun surfaces on my cheeks
Propelling birds from the corners of my eyes,
The lingering touch of grass,
Holds witness to my crass,
Quenching spirit.
A satiated restlessness follows,
Why am I so damned sensuous?
Why do the leaves shy away from me
When the sky has crawled under my skin?
Why do the confused clouds and I
Have the chaos akin?
You whisper to me,
“It was a time of beauty,
The pomegranate bright red,
The orange trees made of purity,
Of freshly painted green.”
The children have died,
The grandchildren had defied.
Your love for,
Visitors.
But here we are,
Lying side by side,
Writhing in the mysterious tide,
Of all the flowers that bloom,
In the breathtaking pervasiveness of your Tomb.