Sunday, November 15, 2009

After Grace

The mountain flows over the granite lake
And diamonds like dust vanish in the wind.

From noon to midnight the flowers blossom
On the shifting edge of orange tinted clouds
The jackal sings a lullaby and sighs
On the high valley floor ringed with starlight
The radio blares an urgent newscast
From long ago and very far awhen.

Across a desolate rock strewn landscape
I follow a muscle bound silent guide
(Blue eyes, a three day stubble, and hairy).
Passing a fallen, deserted ruin,
He turns to me and looks into my eyes,
"That building was the library of lies."

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