Siamo Anziani [ We Are Old ]
026. lurk
Note: It seems terribly short. Written in as little time as its length might hint. Oy, but to expand felt to weight it down Thoughts? (Perhaps vecchio would have been more apt in the title--but anziano--'tis the sound of it, and its touch of the English 'ancient.')
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We are Carthage. Small. Had a name. No names. Still, buried beneath the dust—our hands and feet against the pavement, press up, imprint. My name—no, you hadn’t one. I was older than you. You were five months. I was old. Old.
Mama couldn’t let me go.
Let us go.
Hear us turn; hear our voices
We have the dust in our throats, we have the pound in our ears of feet, feet, feet.
And when we burned, it was nothing new. We’d burned before.
Breathe in, breathe us, breathe out.
Our breath was stopped to keep Carthage new. We are Carthage—its blood is dry, bone powdered, coarse. Its heart, our heart, your heart—
Just let us go.
We burned, oh-so long ago.
I was small-small-small.
I wasn’t. They gave mama gold, glowing like the sunrise on the windowsill. The altar, they said, for the mouth to be full; for your health, for our city.
If he is hungry, will not he devour all?
Such a little thing.
You walk on little things. Little hands, girl. Little arms, boy. Little faces, you, you with the heavy feet—And we are Carthage.
Moloch ate us long ago.
