Your amber eyes are liquid gold with lust
fierce under the sun of African noon-fire,
we smile behind a veil of Atlas dust,
two tightrope artists walking the high wire
loud beats the drum of our hearts’ desire
the light, piercing under the cloudless sky,
orange- blossom inebriated; we conspire,
we have become drunk on love, that is why.
We have come to Marrakesh. That is why,
but did she warn us, the wily fortune teller,
of the dark hollow underbelly of day?
When the end comes -surprised, we take no cover.
Time forgotten ghosts tremble in my hand,
old parched photographs crumble into sand.
©2009 Beatrice V