Hearts of old gods

By Peycho Kanev

 

I am seized by the shadows

of the altar’s stones,

by the weight of the centuries

between the sanctified arches;

I am always under the laurel leaves,

spat out by the passing hands,

by the heads of sheep

under the blue-green of the fig-tree,

close to the morning rocks

and grizzled sparrows,

and by women, saying goodbye

to their soldier’s sons;

I am always between the kingdoms,

I am always between the cities

demolished just like the cloudy skies,

always in this air of withered leaves,

and always there,

where the spring birds

nest in the eyes of the gods.

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Categories: Coming Home, Issue 3 | Leave a comment

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