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Why History Is Trivial MAG
It is not the JFK assassination that moves me to tears,
No government conspiracy could make me a downpour.
Nor “Hotel Rwanda” that leaves me closed and silent,
Barred, but far from empty.
No, it is not the Byzantines that immobilize me
With fear of Babylon and lead me to reckoning blindly.
It is not the Druids that encircle me with rustic warmth,
Not even their stones could hedge me in.
Nor is it the Kingdom of Heaven that seizes me,
Throws me prostrate and demands I beg God for redemption.
No, it is not Shiva who seduces me into flames,
Not he who cleanses my soles, not he who sears them sterile
and smooth.
But it is unmistakable in the way you turn your head and smile,
That I am hypnotized by the lantern that flickers within you.
I am enthralled by the soft light that dances about you, warm
and mild.
I am stirred by the way your hand glides as if to anoint me with oil,
A movement that tremors with an intimacy
So fragile that I kneel before you –
The infidel denouncing her ways
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