there are forgotten
stories
inscribed in words, symbols
and
images scrawled across
damp
walls, under decaying floors, a
history buried
far beneath the
earth, steadily uncovered
in rhythmic codes revealing
time and future, queens
and
their kings, records
woven in
intervals boldly above
their crowns
and where have you been hiding?
your mother, the
goddess, ancestral
force, father sky and his cavernous
soul, strong hands shading a
gaze
across the fields, cold dark
water rumbling, backs
straight, then broken and bent
over torment, again
and
again, abandoned
they are yours
they are ours, the
agonizing
beauty, now an
antiphony
pulses in your
very breath, celebration twined
to your cell memories, a living
history writhing within
your skin
your eyes
your own voice
there is primordial
hope hovering
over the
seas in echoes of oars
and copper mettle, above
the
bird songs, beyond
the
lands that steal and
petrify courage, there
is
harmony and
cadence, lying in
wait in your open palms, throbbing
in your feet,
grasping at your
heart, pleading to
escape
its prison from behind your
teeth and tongue
 |
| (Ben Hodson) |
yes
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