I stopped,
only with the intent to linger
but for a moment
under the light of your wounded moon.
I did not expect to be so ensnared
by Gypsy song
and rhythmic dancing,
nor intoxicated by such beauty.
Maybe it was the fortified wine,
or mystic whispers carried
on the swirling smoke of hashish,
mixed with fragrant tobacco
that lured me to take comfort
in the arms of your Queen.
I was a traveller ensnared
by ancient architecture
and long, languid phrases
turned by a tongue
I should not have understood.
The culture called to me,
from deep in the annals of time.
Crumbled incense burned,
opium dreams on thick, rich rugs,
close enough to hear the oceans
beat against the shores
of your biblical homeland.
Fish and olives,
roast lamb and new wine
and old ways,
resurrected by children
under the eastern stars.
To my mind,
this was my Jerusalem,
your Megiddo in Summer.
Hot and stifling,
you wore only your hair,
long
and we sweat out every sin
our bodies could withstand.
They say that I was driven mad,
by the burning sand
and tinctures of cobra venom
meant to imbue the mortal man
with the capacity to contain
the passions of long dead deities.
Madness though,
like you,
eluded me.
I woke alone,
lost in the exquisite tapestry
I now found myself woven into.
I know not whether I was beggar or king,
but only that the sun had turned
my once pale and youthful skin,
dark and leathery,
like the cover of an old book
and I now contained the mystery
I once sought.
Returning home,
I was a man of forsaken ancestry.
Cursed by my own discoveries,
lost to the world I once knew.
Still, I close my eyes
and hear the sweet voice
that first opened me.
The music and the swaying hips
that discovered me
and I yearn for death,
for surely,
I have already seen heaven.
HG – 2016
