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The Harvester

Out of the lone evening of overgrowth I come arms laden with stalks That have dry leaves and no fruit. My harvest of memory is woeful And dilapidated, Besides history's recondite shadows Keep tripping my speech There are gaping holes in the past And in the reconstruction of any vision. One can only start anew: The first gospel of my alterity. Something in the harvest though Forbids me to leave anything familiar behind. ii I had no day to harvest The night was here before my birth The worms ate already leaves and fruits Yet the season calls for its ritual And are strangers in this habitual. I say a man must know before he can dream But dreams like Babel came down Against the silence of the earth And we tongue was left no voice to cry In the language that God would know Was ours before the trampling of the snow. O Rebekah, Rebekah Wet the dry stalks with your tears, It is the smokescreen you desire I get more insurance if it was fire.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2012




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Date: 6/22/2012 4:01:00 PM
Harvest memories while the day lasts. Lovely poem.
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