POETRY

The earthquake
drunkenly rolled into town.
A town that, seen from above,
was the greenest line
holding onto the hill's shadow
to guard the olive grove
from continuous sunshine.

It was two in the afternoon
when nap time in the heat
flattens you out to extract
the most comfortable dream.

The balconies were thus
full of sleeping beauties,
for what is more beautiful
than a young man worn by work,
with a newborn on his side?

The simple life, older than
the written account of the town,
was snuffed in less time than
you might take to read these few lines.
before the prayers, or the burning fires,
before horses came to graze.

Most never woke up,
the lucky ones that didn't have
to search for their daughters,
or wait in line, to be sent finally
to the city they despised.

And when the rain came again,
the mud bricks returned to mud.
But through the silence, it was said,
echoed often a shrill and angry wail,
in this latest ancient maze.

Jam07