Hair in loose strands ,/thick as the back of a camel/ they recite place names on the moon,/ craters surrounding dry shores/they gather in a huge tent,/pawlike hands readied/necks inclined like they will soon snap/they shed tears from eyes /haunted by a taint of vision/in the vigor of prayer they come forth/ lay soft hands on stones,/ mottoes of saints on trembling lips./I know them as mourning intruders/they fade in apology/I am sorry God,/for all we haven’t done./God, he understands.
Tribe’s Conclusion
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Poetry in Motion 