Translations, of being

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Often a visage appears
as clouds scud across the sky
creating a maelstrom of shapes
Is that what I see
Ephemeral, fleeting.

The tree stands tall
clothed in winter in its glory,
proud and erect against the brutal winds
cowering in shame in summer
Hiding its face
sheltering the lowering sky.

Where are the vultures
come again to bleat
their raucous songs before us

In the deepest of nights
came a formless thing, shifting,
slightly shimmering
wrapped around me it was
clothing Me in its ever-present suffocation

what is Mine and what cannot Be
Shall I stand and look
Eyes never turning
or shall My step bound forward,
leapfrogging across the waters
what shall Be my fate
a heron or a mouette

will that little tadpole
swimming against the currents,
eddies inside her belly
who did win the battle
millions perished save one
transmuted
into a greater beauty ~

On the wings of a bird
far above winter fields
shall I search
the dales for thee
Dark monsoon clouds scudder across slowly
wallowing in their brief dissipation of the land
wet and warm.

Together shall I see
My eye in the sky
atop that bird
a form of alabaster
dancing
a nymph
a faerie
a pixie
an Ionia

should the drummer start the cadence
or the minstrel His lilt
I long to hear those three words
But My ears are deaf
and I am bereft


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