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.
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.