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Flags billow and fade
Into one another, Colors bleeding In the winds of war. In peacetime, they hang limp, Separate, The colors keeping to themselves In the dense silence before a new fight. A craggy, ancient language Bursts from a man’s chest, Haunting in its tenderness From which the angry passion of belonging rises. Mothers’ warm tears trickle through time And the dank crevices of stone walls Into the tranquil sea, The final resting place of children. Upon driving past a row of flags billowing in the wind in the Pyrénées-Orientale.
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There is forgiveness in the mountains, In the craggy face Where the ice of a broken heart melts With each new spring, Trickling through, down, down Into the meadow So the donkeys may graze, bear food to the market, and the toothless vendor may smile. On walking in the foothills of Le Canigou at the outset of 2024.  |
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August 2024
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