FERTILITY

Rain is scarce. The nights are empty
on the field.

I have heard new sounds, new horns,
new populations of men.
I have seen new dusks,
new warriors naked like fauns,
satyrs dressed like sturdy warriors,
Egyptian monsters who carry,
on their shoulders, round their necks,
priapic burden. The stones,
cold under their feet and boots,
are shattered. These warriors spread,
tread on their seed. On the field, 
they hunt for stones late at night.

I have seen the new constructions.
Columns against which
tired warriors lean.
Male lovers hide in the shadows
of this peerless colonnade
of stone phalluses erected
to the Sun god, finely carved
to recreate throbbing masonry and veins.
They were brought from Khaled Nabi.

The men march, stalk, tread 
on their seed spread on the field again,
inseminating the earth as they yield
to desire.

New crop thrives under the shadows
of the phalluses of stone.
New phalluses germinate
on the field from the seed
of the warriors. New stalks of flesh
that strive to survive in the cloud
of dust and sperm. They compete
with their gigantic models 
of stone, inseminating the field
as they yield to the stride 
of the warriors.

The men march, inseminate,
stalk, erect, 
fight, construct, 
tread and spread
and mutilate.
Long gone are the divine mistresses
and the multi-breasted goddesses
of the East.