Sunday, January 14, 2007
The Mysteries of Ritual
Each evening, on the red and shifting sands,
they gather silently and wait,
for a boy to cup the sun in his hands.
They watch as the orb of fire shrinks,
paralysed, as it slowly sinks
towards a hungry, churning sea.
The boy’s master stands at his side.
Before the crisis comes, he threads
swiftly through the swaying throng,
collecting from each a fee,
in inverse proportion to their means.
To each he grants the right to witness, once,
the triumph of the night.
When, at last, the boy stretches out,
the silence thickens,
breath stops, the pulse quickens.
He takes it, drags it down
and before their very eyes
he makes it drown.
No voice is raised against his act.
As one, they turn and leave
the stone faced master to his counting,
the boy on his knees, wiping his tears on his sleeve.
I'm still here. The left wing poet didn't get me!