Yolanda’s Song

We sit and wait in reeds,

Thigh-high grasses and spindle

Scratches on old palms which clutch

Sprigs of seer’s heather,

Waiting for the laughing

River to wash our soles.

Somewhere, there is a tent

And fragrant smoke from silk

Flags which rip around the breath,

Heavy with sand, a singular crusade.

The horses will continue pounding

East. Somewhere in an old walled town

The morning call to prayer breaks

The heavy heads of faith again.

The cardomon cracks my lips

And I shout out two words across

The spinning dust, unheard to you

Dancing at the city gates.

About Benjamin Norris

Published writer of short stories, long stories, poems. Well received art critic and cultural commentator for Berlin magazines. Collaborator with operatic societies. Co-writer of fictional historic psycholinguistic journals. Lecturer of architecture and art history at a Budapest University. View all posts by Benjamin Norris

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