I walk upon this
tragic earth, and
as my bones grow
weary, I rest beneath
a fig tree, I watch the sky
sacrifice another sun.
I listen to the wind sing
its songs of the mountains
and the sea and how the
soldiers and the sailors
are lost without their love.
I dream of mandolins and
the movement of clouds.
I dream of white villages
and genuine smiles. I feel
the distance between your
breath and mine. I continue
this search for authenticity,
I hear the fig tree whisper,
sleep now there is no need
to feel afraid …
Clay.M