Tuesday, November 22, 2016

View of Mount Song

Did love the 'morrow break,
when winter came too fast for me,
and seeped under the door,
a mist rose o'er the woolen floor.
too fast held tightly to my feet,
and bound them.

All weighing in my despair,
I lost my soulful child there,
all hurried in the straw street.
The wind passed by
the ashen flower box and swept it nigh,
camellias to a fiery finish.

What of comfort here in the Orient,
a far away land of copper hands and lotus flowers.
A wall surrounds my heart, my days
have all been lost in a maze
of rice fields, cries ringing out from dawn, I sing
only in the dark amid burning embers on the lawn.

I am far away, too hot to touch, too alone to stay.
The sun is a round red circle in a white sky.
My books are scattered in a nomad pile.
I wrote to you in burnt sienna style.

I am neither poor nor rich.
I am neither young nor old.
I am neither black nor white.
I am neither slave nor free.

Emily Isaacson