Tuesday, 30 of August of 2016

Bob Finkbine – Blood In The Stone

Mountains let slip their tributaries,
blue ribbons sliding over smooth stone,
over mossy browns, slipping in and out
of pools, cascading over rock,
sharpening their knives
for the carving of flamed walls
far below. The west wind
blows fine grains of sand
stirring ghosts
who will not speak.
Sun-leathered lines on our faces,
we hike Matkatimba, follow the unclocked
thread, climbing through raised passageways,
clambering back, back, back
beyond Auschwitz, Antietam, Bunker Hill,
Carthage and patriarchs sacrificing sons;
back to where we strip off our skin
and touch our blood to the blood in the stone,
to the beating heart of deceased centuries,
back to where our roots
lie in unmeasured time
when all life’s children
nursed at

Bob Finkbine

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