Following the Saints
From the rock of my heart a horse rose,
that I should rise to follow them,
the night they left by taxi
from the Damascus Gate, and fled towards Bombay.
My heart threw me off.
If only I had robes white enough,
but my robes were full of ashes and dust.
The rouge, lipstick, the eyeshadows
you left on my flesh, I washed off before prayer.
My heart looked back at me from a distance,
its reins bitten through – and was gone.
STANLEY MOSS (1987)
From the rock of my heart a horse rose,
that I should rise to follow them,
the night they left by taxi
from the Damascus Gate, and fled towards Bombay.
My heart threw me off.
If only I had robes white enough,
but my robes were full of ashes and dust.
The rouge, lipstick, the eyeshadows
you left on my flesh, I washed off before prayer.
My heart looked back at me from a distance,
its reins bitten through – and was gone.
STANLEY MOSS (1987)
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