Jeremiah 12

Twelve were the strands of your hair,
sweet the scent of your breasts.
Your arms were marble pillars
basking in the moonlight.

Twelve were the days of our love,
eternal, the days of our mourning;
your chest reeks of tears,
your arms are broken columns.

I trample the grass of your courtyard -
an eagle's garden, palace of caterpillars,
beds of royal corpses spread beneath my feet,
as my toes bask in the carpet of decay.

Twelve were the moons that counted our parting -
 dust layers itself over love that rises in red like the sun.
The cries of eagles have become our lullabies,
as we lie like prey: black specks on brown sand in a golden morning.