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On the wings of a dying eagle The last great dive for majestic life, Embroidered into every flag. But here, there are no proud trumpets, No violins or weeping banner-bearers, Mothers dressed in mourning black, No carriage ride to cemeteries of kings, Just a last decline towards rushing green, Creating a cradle of broken feathers On ferns full of young life. Still... The river cries its misty tears, Sobbing to the bank. Fish celebrate with solemn nods, And for a moment flighty hares Tip their ears and pay attention When high above a white-capped mate Screams to the blushing sun With more heartbreaking sorrow than the wings Of all the cooing white doves. |
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