Image Faye Sarras
Rain of centuries
the soil moistened
where worm and seed plied their way.
Seared by ploughs,
baked by sun,
in compact boughs of fortune won.
Timbers firmly bound by hand,
with roasted clay assembled,
a place to nourish and to pray,
a home it well resembled.
The gale still blows in my ears
that fell those tiles where my heart rose. Heated timbers, scorched so hot,
no tempest could they quench,
lay burning beyond my years.
Hypnotized in fond remembrance
where my mind, like smouldering embers, scarce escaped the glowing gaze,
reflected by the shattered glaze,
both wishes tough and tender.
In a world ablaze, consumed my youth, ancient pyres, forbidden truths,
fallen tiles through bluish haze.