“The Number of Water” by Sanya Osha, continued from previous page

 

Layers upon echoes

Echoes upon parodies

The tauntings of mentor

And alter ego

Call the monster into slumber

And slowly the sands alone

Walk to Jerusalem.

 

The felicity of implacable waves

Runelling through the spaces of broken

Unproven skies

 

Winds bearing disconsolate echoes

 

Formless.

He knocked upon the doors

Of a sound of water

The face of lifeless water

The door opened to a green

Water-filled hypogeum

Where men in fish natures

Swam in melodic confusion.

 

A golden manlike camel

Runs through the floors of the skies

Until an orchestra

Shoots through its pores, its cures

And then returns to disharmony

Looking for the voice

Of the satanic impostor

And the voice re-occurs

Grating on the flying celestial railroads

Nothing stays still here

It’s all a lofty lustration by whips

 

Then is an inner hand

Groping inside an unlit zone

For its other half

Fervently within the space

That has been deserted by blood

And swallowed up by darkness

Groping for that eternal handclasp

 

And a white gem rose within him

And like a scythe started

To mow the reeds

To sunbeamed purity

I have found why his eyes

Leave him to weep every evening

On a bank with a womb of melancholy

And now he polishes his sunshine

With new palms

Since he has weaved together the reeds

Tied their ends and thrown them

Into an orphaned night.

 

The spirit was starved

By defective milk at birth.

Small odious seeds of fear

Sprouted around it,

The divine flesh of the spirit

Continued to disintegrate

Until it was decided that the ethereal light

Is what we shall wear over our bones

And shall be the weight of our spirit

 

 

  The Number of Water Continues >>


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Sentinel Poetry (Online) #46

The International Journal of Poetry & Graphics...since 2002                  

ISSN 1479-425X

Editor: Amatoritsero Ede

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