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 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.