A hillock blisters the field of spread.
Black gold lies ready to yield its prize.
Zeus has sown his seed in this bed
And his son will soon astonish our eyes.

Rub it and listen! It begins to purr,
A genie slinks from his cloistered home,
A white snout first, then night of fur,
A nugget of truth from the formless loam.

This was our game: I’d flip the spread
To hide that form curled up as if dead.
The ball is the term of the smiling mask.

Now to bury a stiffened corpse is my task.
And as the bleeding shreds of old day fade
A sun arises on that game we played.

by Michael Buhagiar

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