Sanya Osha

 

The Number of Water

 

 Faces faces

Faces

Trombones

Faces faces

Strings

Faces to Jerusalem

And the blue water makes a dark dithyramb.

 

And from the ethereal ocean of dream

The echo of a sound opens its mouth

Where you can see the monster

With the dragon head

Dragging its slow wrath

Across the dunes to Jerusalem

For the great massacre of angels

 

Ladies Ladies

Wheedling refrains of the string

Ladies

The duke of death has risen to dance

On the walking sands

And the moon is waving all her limbs

And the madness of the wind

Is the very darkest hue

And all at once the volcanoes are splintered

There on the walking sands

Kaleidoscopic trombone

The many colours of your sound

Back forth on off

Off on back forth he trots

His muscular weight too big

For just about any wife

 

And water-filled chirping of a sparrow

Ushers him on into the infinite

Expanse of organic sands

That stretches on after

The end of man and god

Our maternal moon sheds her azure advices

And in spite of her

The seeker of Jerusalem

Continues to swing his great sword

In the poisoned ethereal desert

And the keys of time

Begin to reverberate

Like cannonballs pounding slowly

The womb of the ground

And the sparrow still urges them on

 

Back and forth off and on

Back and forth with the imaginary maid

Back and forth till we begin to swing again

And thrust into the wound

With undulated wind caesuras

And now you can hear

The long call of the breezes

Until the moon upends their hair

With her madness

And the sound hasn’t drowned us yet

 

 

The Number of Water Continues >>


# of readers, this issue