The Turtle-Head is Sinking in the West

by Yaacov Dovid Shulman

The turtle-head is sinking in the West.
I watch the falcon, eagle and the kite,
The faint footpaths whose courses have been blessed,
The secret soul that only speaks at night,

The bride whose feet leave crimson drops of blood,
The rows of houses, long across the hill,
The radio signals, tumbling in a Flood,
Geraniums upon the window sill.

The praying mantis crouches in the wind,
The wheat fields bow their prayerful, golden heads.
The silver moon is keening that it sinned,
And startled children tumble into beds.

And oh good morning, mystery of streets,
Of treasures underneath the sycamores.
The papers land with news of new defeats
And hidden chambers open their green doors.