The cooing of the dove perched up on a tree
Brings resignation of spirit without fear
To the minds of men who not enough have learned
Great sorrow in the jungle the past can’t bear.
The past’s virile wind and echoes and gurgles
Fill the emptiness with restlessness, regrets,
And show not few peremptory reminders
Of wealth in the joys that the present forgets.
They saw once in the days of all the great gods
When to fly was as sure as fast unhindered,
And magic and sciences coiled into one,
Feeling the thrust of blood in each other’s heart.
Easily they’d expect to see the past crawl
Into and onto the table of the feast
To taste the victuals of the great old journey
On the mound of earth where silence is beneath.
Oh, how swift the flutter of change’s brought them here!
Suddenly there’s delight where they set their eyes.
And the promise that blinds them with so much awe
Suffices amidst a future not without flaws.