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Bones that once saw life coursing through their channels
Bones from the desolation
of the strife and struggle of living
Deep in the valley
Dry from the wind and isolation of time
Dust blown listlessly
For the word,
Waiting for the crushing cymbals trumpeting through the cracks
Skittering in the agony of birth
As the breath of prophecy blew into empty sockets
That once saw green and red horizons
Attaching to bones
To make them move, sigh and sing
As the stones start under slow footsteps
To tread, lift, step and march
A phalanx


* Inspiration from Ezekial

Ezra Ben-Meir, History:   #268, December. 1985
©- This poem, with acknowledgment as to source,  may be used for non-commercial purposes. 

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