south wind

westwards the sea dwindles into a range of mountains

from left the maddening south wind blows

the kind of wind that whips flesh off the bone

our house among the pines and carobs:

large windows, large tables

for writing you the letters we have been writing

so many months now

paper to fill the emptiness of our separation

morning star, when you looked down upon us

our times were sweeter than oil on a wound

more joyous than cold water to the palate

more peaceful than the wings of swans

you held our life in the palm of your hand

after the bitter bread of exile

at night when waiting at the white wall

your voice comes to us like a hope of fire

and again this wind hones

its razor against our nerves

each of us writes you the same thing

and each falls silent in the other's presence

each of us on his own stares towards

the same world, the light and darkness on the mountain

how will this sorrow be lifted fro our hearts?

a hard rain fell last night and again today

the sky is grey and heavy

our thoughts - like the pine needles of yesterday's rain

lie piled against the door and useless

peak to a tower and collapse

among these decimated villages

on this headland naked to the south wind

on this side of the mountains which hold you prisoner

who will calculate the cost

of our decision to forget?

who will accept our offering

here at the end of autmn?