I recall thinking about that olive face
and about the virgin oil.
It was a night of sublime expectations.
The moon refracted fading sparks
that trailed wondering stars, like orphans
of a protracted civil war–
abandoned by hopes of peace talks.
After a while, the stars did stand their grounds,
but there was no doubt
the Moon will return in full bloom.
Things imagined and imaginable crossed my mind
or left uneasily on account of fading memories.
The reality was far away,
like the hope of impending rain
seen in breasts of fading dark clouds.
“Are we the hopeful or the image of it,
the dreams or the optimist?” you wonder,
“and our hopeless hopes, will-less prayers,
and the fake miracles, are they
the inspirations that silence the faith
on the stone plates of the Gothic cathedral?”
you asked, “I’ll wait until the Second Coming.”
Before long, the rain did descend with torrential intensity
that bait the sponge left after a long drought.
The patience that hope promised in virtue
was not a faded dream but a race of strength.
Then her olive face appeared,
Fixed on my mind’s eyes, a gaze seen in trickling rains
that lasted all day, through a slow Night walk,
Like the king snake’s gait of nobility across a private compound.
*Copyright © 2020 By Chris C. Ulasi
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