chapter 7: Shiva
In the blue light of the waning moon,
Upon the black wood and the sorry fool,
Acting like the silent devil deep in thought,
Forgetting the last word that seems to be so lost.
Of silver hair that wept till his feet,
And a crown so poised as poisonous yet sweet,
And the flattering of the voices across the world,
Prey not upon the flesh bitten off the cold.
The rain that sleeps above the high mountain,
And the road to vanish at the turn,
And the fool thinks he has lost nothing,
Yet the rain falls and he bears no wings.
Mirrored of these sullen days of misfortune,
As hollow nights can be granted no moon,
And the footprints of a man has led to follow,
The world before the womb and before the swallow.
For the thievery of the late hour,
And the silence of him has been higher,
The flickering flame that burnt that night,
So suddenly could a soul shine so bright?
The great minds that did baffle themselves,
For concrete thoughts that should stand on shelves,
The weight cannot be carried by strength,
And the swiftness of the mind so broken and bent.
Purple skies and pointing eyes,
All these days the clouds have not cried,
And the day has come to finally gather,
Beneath the burning sun we lighted together.
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