adventures in dysthymia

Monday, April 01, 2013

Crossing, a poem

Crossing

From the high passes, I spied
your wealth, coveted
all the golden riches
of tower-crowned cities,
dozing through the days.
The sun had sung you to sleep.

I have crossed the mountains.
What legions can you marshal
against my hunger? What
captain knows the truths
a sword writes on the heart?
The conqueror weighs his costs

like fruit in the market, buying
the ripeness of each promise.
There is no cheating such scales
when I name my ransom.
I have crossed the mountains;
I am in your fields.

Stephen Brooke ©2013

Being a poem, this may, of course, be chock-full of metaphor and speak of many sorts of conquests. Or take it at face value.

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