Friday, 6 December 2013

The rituals had their own tempo
Shifting from a lope to a stroll
The rituals had their own rhythms
A longline of sound and gesture
Of flame and milk and water and seed and leaf and
The rituals were lulling stupefying mesmeric
But they only made me numb
Only left me tired

And the only emotion I had was about him:
He was not so old
How sad for him
Sad for him
Not me
No

No ritual I suppose could enlarge that

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