The Swan Song

Penned by the budding shoot, Fengkha.

No more shall these fingers,

Reaping my brain of words and thoughts,

Hold a quill drenched in ink

And scratch the innocence of a blank canvas

Teemed with my soul,

My darkness and my deepness.

The celestial sky be my parchment,

The branches my quill

And every drop of water my ink;

Yet I fear the age has come to pass.

Life transpires through the pores:

A lump of mass.

No more shall I respond to thine call:

A Siren's song, truth be told.

Struggles and strifes, stormy nights

Rain on my roof, blood in my eyes.

Often I turned to thee

For solace and confort-

Gleaning my mind of words hopeful

Amidst the serenity of pain'd labour.

Smile I greet thee with on the harbour.

Shall I ask thee to stay?

To ease the burden of my head and heart.

A numbing pain tingles the tip of my fingers;

You are but an incomplete orbit

A supernova.

A meteorite burnt by its own brute force.

There's this world and all the colours in it

And there's me- my thoughts and my words.

Dissecting, electric- sparks and smoke.

But no more!

A man corked- aroma of death and words alive

Festering and churning

And sinking to nothingness.

Hear my story. Hear my poetry.

They are my legacy.

This I bequeath to you

On the wings of a songbird.

In the valley unbound and mountains unexplored.

This is my swan song.

***

Zaoliyagwsw hopes that the Swan will sing again.