saddening as that first morning when
winter whispers into the city, and
all day, all day a wind is blowing through your mind
and through the streets of that other, secret
city whose jagged edges are remembering; for you
are an image of its trees, and like the trees
the wind picks you up in its dance and you
sway through the strange nights when something
speaks from beyond the voices of our fathers, something
sleeping in the heavy, turbid depths of the river, and
whirls us about, through the centuries,
shattering us against the silence of the stars.
/Arka's poem starts out quite strongly - somewhere around 'you are an
image of its trees' it turned to stock phrases and the wind lost its
way, and died down. 'City's jagged edges' sounds fine, but 'jagged
edges remembering' is a confusing image.
