On Day 652 of the daily poems our poet Colin Pink reminds us that all comes to dust in the end. What was Buried Treasure becomes Lost Treasure – or even treasure that never was.
The Treasure of the Sierra Madre
returns to the dry earth from which it came
dust to dust, ashes to ashes
blown on the wind, grain by precious grain.
The seeds of madness germinate in the sun
there’s a season for everything
while we labour to finish what was begun
Who knows what is truly golden? A helping hand
soothing the fevered eyes of need
like the tang of cooling water in a blistered land?
All that’s left, at the end, is the insane laughter that just
keeps on ringing in my memory
long after the actors themselves have all turned to dust.
Colin Pink
fromColin Pink, Acrobats of Sound, 2016 Poetry Salzburg Press