My soul is timeless and older than the cobblestones
I walk on, my is older than the houses that lean and
get old together in narrow streets where shadows
huddle in doorways, away from the unforgiven sun.
My soul is so old that it can remember a time when
the weakest was banished and can only come out at
night. No, there is nothing modern about my soul,
but since it is timeless it knows what is modern today
will be old fashioned tomorrow
A tiny lamb bleats in my neighbour’s back garden,
(there often is a lamb bleating in their yard) it is fed
from a bottle carried around and treated as a baby
and let it run in and out of the house and taken for
a walk by their daughter and as the lamb nibbles
on straw by the road side and the girl prettily smile
city folks stop and take pictures.
Then the bleating stops, always on a Sunday, from
the back yard an aroma arises, roast lamb on a spit
lovingly turned, to an even brown, by the daughter
of the house. Guests arrive there is wine and much
laughter, and hungry I open a tin of soy meat balls.
Soon, depending on the season, another lamb will
bleat and given a happy infancy.