To My Children

And the figure walks in the woods all alone,
Casting shadows over the dim crescent,
And while looking down at earth the mouth sways
Smiling with an opposite curve towards the absent sun,
Tears fill the eyes as blessed as a nomad’s filled wells,
And creatures approach shielding behind tall canopies,
The owl evolves into a bat. Sting. Cut. Bark.
Ogres and goblins do not exist though unicorns do,
And lifeless objects with dented armour still hiding,
Strategising their attack on the shadow casting figure
Trembling in fear of what happened and what to become,
But far off from these rotten rats and cockroaches,
Though unaware of their presence he hugs himself in coldness,
Stretching his arms warming up his muscles to prepare a ceremony
For the inevitable tomb created for the same creature on that sled,
And so the wolves howl whilst the lions are yet to roar,
And still with the sun hidden in the unearthed graveless pits
That same slim figure starts digging through the earth, a grave.
And they watch as they did in ancient times under many emperors,
Now, the armour removed and their huge body resemble a monsoon,
Full of scars and agony, but strong and robust, soon to expire as did the sun,
And yet their faceless heads bow in sadness joining the figure’s rituals
Encircling that digging figure chanting symbolic calligraphies,
Painting the creature’s soul in hope and lightness,
And the approaching dawn fights off the parasitic shadows,
Uniting their lively souls as they mourn for the dead,
Now the creatures uncurve their vertebrates,
Returning to their glorious ancestors with hopeful stories,
Enjoining the good and sharing the wounds they are tending to,
The elders’ voices silenced as they continue to farm the land,
The shadow of the dusk might revisit but not now. Not to us.
And the figure walks in the woods all by himself,
Casting joyful souls over the bright yellow sun.
Wednesday, 7thof November 2012

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