October 17th, 2010

brigid

Two from Mexico

Uxmal

I stop, look up (scalp a-tingle), and see:
The hand that made the arch is still here,
Ochre-painted on the vault. A pool of years
Eddies in the quadrangle, flows down
This passage towards ballcourt and palace mound;
A cool stream coiling under jungle heat.
How far this world has floated to reach
A here of half-lost cemetery beauty!
Cupped in a jade cradle, these bones
Have shed their vivid stucco flesh,
But now cohere, set and knitted by the love
Of newer hands. No longer does the weeping
Of stone sound above the forest song.

8/22/2010


Teotihuacan

The light slants through the crystal air
And echoes form in shapes of stone
Like clouds around as we prepare

To walk the avenue of bones
And shadows cast by centuries.
As echoes form in shapes of stone,

And sound along the threading breeze,
The words of those who walked this street
Like shadows cast by centuries,

With inward homage we repeat
What must have been the ceaseless rush
Of words of those who walked this street.

But we are humbled by the hush
And emptiness that hangs instead
Of what was once a ceaseless rush

Like butterflies above our heads,
In light that slants through crystal air
And emptiness that hangs instead
As echoes fade from shapes of stone.

10/17/2010
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