Ancient World Poem by Liberatore Suffoletta

The hand of a woman
in the alleys of the seaport,
inviting sailors who go out at night
called by a mortal ocean
hounded by dogs and their fever
knowing nothing about what they love
but hearing the cries of the West
where light is inseparable
from the eyes of the dying
illuminating the threshold
of expectations.
A faint light brightening the room at long last
seeking shelter within a shadow’s penumbrae
from those burning with life
who kiss bodies born of fever
seeking salvation or ruin
seeking that which never lasts
razing the walls of the Ancient World
dressed in rags and disgrace
not knowing they are sparks of misery
not knowing who has called them?