Golden streets with cobble pavements.
Lightly browned winds guiding leaves
under the feet of weary walkers.
Leaving ruin and debris lost.
Children running, playing, screaming with
pockets of voluptuous arrogance. Mothers
cradling infants that cannot yet play
while fathers watch their wives.
Flags and posters hang from
poles, street lights and windows
proclaiming a death or supposed
death of one women’s spoil.
“If you see her kill her, kill the sinner.”
“If you don’t, pray she don’t see you first.”
The sun is bright, gleaming,
blinding the children who play
on the golden cobble. White
linens and silks flow in
windows bare. The doors are
open wide, always wide, welcoming
the girls who play wearing
skirts soft. The baker lays
out his ration, his life
on a shelf for the
children to beckon, call home
and plead. His work smells
of warmth, pride. The boys
beg their mothers, the children
gather on the street. Gleam
through the windows busy, at
at the toys, trinkets, all
laid out in a row. Gathering
around like rust forming on
wheels, flies fleeing to rotten
meat. The butcher has no
peering children, curious girls looking
through the dress shop windows.
The children don’t understand. A
shadow pulls a blanket over
the golden cobble. The faces of
crying children for their mothers,
fathers weeping for their daughters.
Black cats mew for their
dinners, cry for milk and
meats. Shadows fall over shop
windows, darkening the fabrics and
the girls. Hiding the baker’s
gold and flies swarming the
meat. No more boys calling
out to the girls walking.
Shop keepers yelling at boys stealing,
the girls are shrieking, the babes weeping.
No more boys calling out to the girls walking.