Shadows of a passing river
If I had known you were the ancestral river
Beneath the drought of our eyes
I’d have never let a tear out
I wouldn’t have wept as sweetly as your kin will
Reluctantly welcoming a precious gift to death
I will not weep
Not so much as a man will.
If I feel I am too weak a man
I will plant my cowardice in this manful world of yours
And if I see death coming close
I will run slowly
And conceal my cowardice abyss your citadel
Where death’s literacy will end
And then we will mock him in a poem
I will borrow the porcupine’s coat
And look so dangerous to him.
It was in these very tears of the moon
Round this flame, the solemn flute
Beneath this nocturnal bough
That father told us of death’s fear
And its feebleness to swim.
We cannot die of unnatural thirst
Such river like you cannot die
No, you cannot
No―you will not die!
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