How many ways to kill our pasts?
On wings which carried deserts north
The pharaoh’s birds would soar with souls.
We clipped those wings and pinned those souls.
How many desolations built?
From mountain peaks to Shiva’s shrine:
We emptied every one of birds
And wondered at the silent skies.
How many ways to carve our guilt?
Those perfect wings, those lines of flight,
Which glide from life to life beyond.
Those messengers of ancient tombs.
Out of the sun there wheeled the birds:
How many ways to praise this world?