Cat At Night
Whether the night haunts him or as a mask hides him,
No matter, he knows where prey and fear lie in wait.
Poacher whose skill daylight disregards as base cheat,
But whose widened pupils know not of our chasm.
Cat: Wild Cat
A coat of screams and yells lines a rug of ember,
Circle surrounding him and mane that at him tears.
When he perceives the pole wrung by his panic fears,
He climbs up to the top and hopes to recover.
Prague: Charles Bridge
Three forts adorned with arms linked by a rosary
Where fervour was captured in stone and in pageant,
Were a jail roofed with slate and with epic legend
That in twisted soaring flared up - a cemetery
Birth Of The Lyre
A carapace harbouring sheer silence,
It smelled of mud and silt, motionless on the path,
A shell where nights gather, if not a cenotaph,
Inscription On A Stone Slab
I was caught in a whirl, with loud shouts and drum rolls,
Flags streaming in the wind, delirious prophecies,
Squirting blood... Suddenly, from their feasts I was torn
And fell into rest which ignores time and worries.
The Weaver Of Fate
Neither call nor silence nor sleep have a threshold
Whereon your walk ceases and becomes flight or fall.
The song of a child is so faint and seems to rise
From the source of your pride.