For Amir Or
Neither curse nor prayer can disperse the mist.
The river steams, sweats ominous mornings.
Eyes are glazed, vacant, uncomprehending,
that once delighted in every fluttering image.
There’s no one to say what’s ahead or behind.
A seasoned walker, you now tread blindly
through mid-country, with no way up or down,
thinking as you go: the land I left is better,
things there at least have something to show –
the roads have their signs, homes their stories.
The naked stone measures your stumbling steps,
adding them to the history of every human fall.
You raise a lantern to the day inside you,
that once stirred a thought resolute and whole.
You elbow yourself and stammer a shrill cry,
like a lost bird sounding through slabs of mist
in this mysterious celestial pantomime.