Monday, August 24, 2009


Her billion eyes burnt in rage,
She had died many deaths before,
When violence of her wingspan brewed a storm.

Somewhere in distant time, we were swimming in the air,
Kissing the floating anthers and sleepy fireflies,
As if they were fairies from our past.
Our union caused amazement,
Followed by shouts and murmurs,
Another poet died of his prophetic lust.

Freedom of spring followed,
While she was locked up in winter’s prison,
She raced down a stairway,
Her wings buried beneath her coat,
Made of her velvet dreams.
An open window had cast its spell,
She surrendered her wings,
To all the blue of my sky.