My baby spins
burnished gold
etched in time
by the dying light.
Please don't uproot the rooted
don't forget the hope
the children sing, oblivious
as mothers weep into their hair.
Return me, and I will return
each word overripe with import.
The planes' overhead whine
mingles with the oud's dirge.
when will we manage
full confession?
In this golden hour
I give chocolate.
In this golden hour,
I give juice
I give all the sweet
that is too sweet
unable to hold back.
Let us fall into the hands of God
for his mercies are great
the music beats
as the wide-wombed
evening embraces all of us.
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