The lace-maker hides her eyes
Behind the wrinkled corner
Embracing the wind.
Still the semitic verses find her.
She sits in the narrow vein
Of veiled stone and amber hues,
Whilst making a dusty doilee.
Still the semitic verses find her.
The steeples shiver in her hand
As her heart naps
Inside the quiet walls.
Still the semitic verses find her.
The bobbins clatter between silk fingers
Like juvenile drums of war,
Shattering the Eastern silence.
Still the semitic verses find her.
The half-moon cradles the North star
Over the zig-zagging horizon
Radiating waves across her eyes.
Finally the semitic verses find her heart.
Adding your comment: