by Aida Bode
I sent my daughter
to look for my youth
but she came back
with her head low,
and her hands
full with dejection.
The crows had eaten
all the crumbs
I had left behind
and the wind had covered
all my footsteps.
So I sent the leaves,
all the fallen ones
golden with Zeus’ lightning
and brown with
Dionysus’ withered vines
Childhood was there
born of Euridice
alive and well
in Hades’ dwelling.
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