Thursday, January 25, 2024

holy ground

they call it holy land,
this sorrow.
a dry place, wide,
without
shade.
the arrows of
vultures circle
in the sky.
the dust is in your
eyes,
caught
in your throat.
there is no water
to quench
your grief,
no words will soothe
the broken
heart.
you have to press on
alone,
further and further,
but you'll wake up
one morning
and know
that the dark birds
have flown.

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