My fingertips have started to go numb.
The metamophosis begins:
flesh becomes salt, a soulless pillar.
As I look at myself, the image fogs;
my eyes, too, are turning to salt.
I have ceased to look ahead -
as I was not moving forward
I thought I needn't look ahead.
I looked around; the scenery enticed.
I saw my hometown warm with memories.
I took them for comfort, to store
like curling photos in an album -
just for once-in-a-while,
for the valley of tears,
a talisman against troubled times ahead.
So the salt slowly spreads.
I know that if I move again
sensation will return, sharp,
like needles stuck deep,
like fire, oh! fresh pain.
But it's hard to go on,
for the steel of my courage
has also turned to salt.
Copyright Jay Whittaker
19.7.83
Cf Genesis 19:26
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