Periphery stands, perfumed with citrus,
in her harvest jeans, her juvenile vivacity
glinting in her spring-water eyes,
her face - smooth desert mud,
her eyebrows – thistles,
but metropolis stands still, with pocketed hands.
Metropolis is full of himself, belittling every chance for
He likes it dirty,
short and flirty,
Making furrows appear on her disappointed face,
He disappears between the buildings while she
sprouts roots in her place
and her veins are like the farmers path back home.
Meanwhile, her jeans tear
and her worn out sandals scorch her heels.
Not looking back, she braids the dry wheat field of her head,
thinking that perhaps his attitude will somehow change.
Sometimes her poise rattles him
For a minute, he glances at her,
but still would not seed her.
Periphery has not seen him for some time,
And he himself thought she was gone in her prime
But as he was laying there
pleased with himself,
he couldn't help but wonder
whether he was wrong
not paving the way to her heart
when he still had the chance
when she was only scattered huts,
sandy and wild.
Now she is in full bloom
and he shows signs of aging.
He tries to stand erect
before she gets too big for him.
But her blouse is municipally buttoned,
and no manipulation fools her,
She knows her own worth,
She explores her own nature
through pots and mattocks,
through her image reflected in a stream,
through the street benches
She paves her way
Shaving off her thick bushes
only for the sake of his love,
or perhaps for discovering
Sharon Duek personal website. Coming soon in English.