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Thursday, 16 October 2014

And, yet another poem of place repost

The Sleeping Lady of Malta

Thanks to Wiki for The Sleeping Lady of Malta, circa 1,500 BC

Of what does she dream, this heavy lady of Malta, resting on her hard bed,
hand under her head, like a goddess taking a break from listening to her votaries singing chants over the wine-dark sea?

Does she dream, or is her sleep dreamless, that of the dead, who no longer hold imagination or memory? Has she let go of the last images of the Middle Sea's ships bringing her necklaces of shells from Syracuse?
Is her dream one of the dancing star-skirted lady?

Did her dreams end abruptly, like one caught off-guard in the night, facing a soft journey into eternity?
Or, is she still dreaming, holding on to images which she creates for the people of Malta, who no longer know her name?

This lady wears the billowing skirts of many goddesses and reveals her breasts to the world, as if to say she is worthy of the worship from those who need fertility.
Those yearnings of Maltese maidens lie in the dust of Ħal-Saflieni-few want offspring now.

This lady's hair was done by one of the ancestor's of the blow-dry experts of Valletta, and she does not worry about her bare feet, so broken, so lost in memory. Does she does dream of some one, some god beyond the walls of Athens or Kedash?

Does he dream of her, he, buried in a cave or sandstorm, with his arm under his head? Or did he find a lissome lass of Dalmanutha or the ancient springs of Achsah? Maybe he preferred dark, like the tents of Kedar?

His left arm is under my head and his right arm embraces me. Daughters of Jerusalem,
I charge you: Do not arouse or awaken love until it so desires. And, so, perhaps, she sleeps into
this tumultuous century, dreaming of lost love....

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