The Innisfree Poetry Journal
by Patrick Woodcock
The mountains were gold first or golden
And when the wind came the mountains
Gave their gold or golden to all below. And some were sad
And some wished for it to go away and some
Smiled as it settled upon the houses and schools,
Mosques and churches. Windows, cars, children
And goats, were all gold, and when it settled around the statue
Of Mam and Zin—their embrace turned gold, their blood turned gold
And finally their bodies, golden, were left to settle, alone.
In dust, in sunlit burnt sand, their embrace and their
Wishes longed for it all to grow. "Can you feel it my love,
The sand is carving us closer and closer, don't breathe,
For once don't breathe." Farhang inhaled their dust
and returned home to whisper it into his new fingers.
But sometimes when he is sleeping and dreaming
of someone to hold he sighs a wedding ring,
earrings and a necklace —a dress with gold lace upon it
was once lost while drowsing on a couch. He has lost these moments—
but returns to their embrace again and again—
to inhale the wind and sand sculpting a love, dead and golden.
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