Beneath the bougainvillea's arid brilliance
a sombre note, half-muted by the brashness
of the tourist age: I catch its rage
in bronzes of anonymous boy-martyrs
in city squares, padlocked mosques
and monuments of conquerors defaced.
Old Larnaka conceals its pain
in fragrant courtyards steeped in shade,
the wrinkled face that shuns the public gaze.
The salamander knows that life
is shadows racing over stone; he knows
that blood and jasmine leave no trace.
Salamander, Larnaka
© Copyright: Jena Woodhouse, 2003
Свидетельство о публикации №103022200261
Свидетельство о публикации №103022200261
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