The wounded angel on the koel’s wing’s
carrying the dregs of Shakuni’s spring;
spilling tears for the processing dead,
all reclining in the wake of the lead.
The soundless fall of the crashing tree,
a bed of arrows for a costly fee,
whispered words of good intent
squeeze-drying all the energy spent.
And in the end a poem pure,
sung like a chant both clear and sure,
that even to this day resounds
from the depths of the deep heart’s fertile grounds.
(begun ca. 2009, finished ca. 2012)
For more about the poem, see notes.