for Jennifer
Mongolian horses, Mongolian horses, over the hills
and it's plain their piercing ululating voices will
bring us vast warmongering love; much pains.
My people withdraw to the mountains,
take the shortest route to the sea
while I, witless, witness all that and me.
I, under the shady protection of a brave olive tree;
their composite bows bend and arrows
rain on my ancient people in the meadow.
Their armour more visible as distance narrows,
I feel slit eyes now narrowing on a figure
immovable, in the shade of peace yet eager.
Eager to snap a branch and summon a dove,
eager to hear their tales of wanderlust and murder,
eager to show this native innocence of love.
A mounted bowman draws near;
a arrowhead well aimed at
the very heart of fear.
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photo by Jennifer Allison
http://onestreetshy.com/
