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)