Twigs Poem by Agatha Eliza

The roots of the ancient trees
are the woven cradle
of my heart; glowing..pulsating life
carrying the nurturing sap,
amplifying the movement
of this wickerman-like structure
made out of twigs, of flesh
and bones, all joined together.


There was a time when we had
those crosses so
clumsily carved in stone
in the hermit's cold cave
covered with our palms, as if
we could cast a veil
over that dark chapter of history,
or to soothe the wounds that
take centuries to heal
on the severed body
of our ancient spirituality.


There is always a bridge between
us, and our holy ancestors;
their ash and blood is what
binds our worlds..our bodies
are crackling vessels
through which they, the gods,
and time have found a dwelling.