Sarah Phat

Maps

The very sand
Of the motherland -
It lingers in your hair.
To grasp hands sere
(And once so fair)
With pendulous fingers,
Render home near.
Nails,
Brittle shields against time’s dust,
Will traverse the linèd seas
And then for no
other Lust
To heed the constant pleas.
They conquer yellowed mountains high
And topple furling forest trees,
Decimate the cool stones that lie
Beneath parasol of palm leaves,
To seek long-forgotten melisma
That the torn reeds weave.
And it is there we will dance,
To soft, faint song,
To motherland’s distant pulse.




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