The hope a mooncalf follows
is sacrifice for slaughter,
and yet the wings of swallows
still skip across the water. 

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What They Found

“The dead came back from Jerusalem,
where they found not what they sought.’

—Carl Jung, Seven Sermons to the Dead, Sermon I,1916

Beneath a leaden sky:
street merchants peddling wares,
old harlots exposing breasts,
grimaces and stares,
rats, flies and other pests.

The sun somewhere on high,
its gold not of this earth,
trees, stones and Dead Sea salt,
a fire in an open hearth,
a prayer said to a fault.

So they returned, the glow
within themselves in streams,
the mountain now ascended,
eager to walk our dreams,
knowing all is not ended.

They journey on and grow—
the shimmer of waxed oak,
the bedroom lamp reflected,
the earthquake as you woke
with inner world neglected.

 
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© by Leo Yankevich
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