Doina de Haiduc (“Mountain Outlaw’s Song”)

The revolutions of a leaf
turned by the wind
show me more
of myself than
the annotated
grief in history
books.

I stand, sounds rippling
through stream or starlight,
each tumescent haystack
the promise of home,
the womb hatching
a faith first known
by flute in the
outlaw’s ballad
hollowed out by
wooden words.

The girls these days
stick like magazines
to the fingers,
images that
must stay
glossy,
images that fade
over mountains
where only
icons pervade.
Cross yourself,
kissing the hands
that free you,
a gun for each
hand that feeds you.

Further Reading

{{article.Title}}

{{article.BodyText}}