Poet 11586

In the dust before the gate

we've come
to a time when
the gate of new jerusalem
seems not so far away,
and the words we hear
are dry, windless,
disappearing to ink-dark
holes in the night.
within a room above the gate,
wearing clothes of mourning,
the soldier's wife
feigns love of soil,
having given to the cauldron,
and there will be no stars
tonight, no song,
no muse, as
she recalls the beautiful
arcs of ancient stone
hurled in ancient rages,
against men stiff in line
bearing stiffly
what men bear,
thinking not
victory or defeat.
and lost as wheat
sleeping in burnt rows,
heroes pretending relief.
having fallen as tears fall
fresh from the woman's eyes,
fromwindow gates,
to the dust
at our guilty feet.